The Hours That Are Passed
by Pazz.and.Jop
Summary: When a former partner of Henry's comes under investigation, Shawn will do anything to get assigned to the case. Turns out, he's not interested in helping an old family friend; he's out to protect himself. Shawn/Lassiter COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**Rating:** PG-13  
><strong>Summery:<strong> When a former partner of Henry's comes under investigation, Shawn will do anything to get assigned to the case. Turns out, he's not interested in helping an old family friend; he's out to protect himself.  
><strong>Warning:<strong> Mentions of child abuse and use of coarse language.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Psych and all related characters are the property of USA Networks and a bunch of other people in suits. Please don't sue.

* * *

><p><strong>'No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.'<br>— Lord Byron**

**Chapter One**

**_1992_**

The first time_ it_ happened, Shawn had been 15 years old, slightly tipsy and very much wanting to rebel against his father's suffocating boundaries. It hadn't bothered him that first time. Not at all. In fact, the attention made him feel adult and charismatic. It made him feel powerful.

"You're a very handsome boy," he'd told him.

"I know," Shawn had responded, cheekiness present even then.

The other had chuckled and handed him another strawberry-flavored wine cooler. At the time, Shawn had thought nothing of the fact that he had finished off three of the bitter drinks while the other hadn't even finished one.

"Are you sure?" he had asked, worried about just how far he should push the limits. There was the possibility his father would find out about tonight's activities, and the other's protection would only extend so far.

"Don't worry, Shawn," he'd said with a wink and a ruffle of Shawn's hair. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Shawn smiled and downed half his bottle. A heady sense of pleasure rushed to his head and he laughed at the feel of it.

"Promise?" he'd said, smiling around the mouth of the bottle.

"Promise," the other had said. He spoke to Shawn like they were old friends. Like Shawn could trust him to defend him from all the dangers of the world.

And, like a fool, he fell for it.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Present day<br>Santa Barbara Police Department bullpen_**

"Roll-up," Shawn said.

"By the foot," Gus retorted.

"Roll-up."

"By the foot!"

"Roll-up."

"Shawn, we're not discussing this anymore. You get more food with a Fruit By the Foot than you do a Fruit Roll-Up. It's the more economical buy."

"They're cheating you, dude. They just cut the fruit up in narrow strips to make you think you're getting more. Actually, it's the same amount of fruit stuff without the fun cutouts."

To say Shawn and Gus were starting to get on each others' nerves would have been an gargantuan understatement.

It had been two weeks—_two excruciatingly long weeks_, as a matter of fact—since their last real job, and since then, the Psych office hadn't seen anything more serious than a case of a missing cat. (Which, by the way, they totally would have taken if the client's parents hadn't accused them of trying to rip-off a 9-year-old.) Apparently, serious crime in Santa Barbara had decided to go on vacation.

"I don't even know why we're having this discussion," Gus grumbled. "Neither one of us even likes fruit leather."

"You started it," Shawn shot back.

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not!"

"Did—"

"Gentlemen!" a firm voice interrupted. The two turned to see a stern-looking Karen Vick standing in the entrance of her office, both hands on her hips. "It's about time you got here. I called you more than two hours ago."

"I'm sorry, Chief," Shawn said, voice oozing with false sympathy. "We were in the midst of our weekly office-snack shopping trip when you called. We would have left sooner but Gus here insisted on wasting time and money on ribbon-shaped foods."

"I'm not the one who picked up the box, Shawn. Besides, it is _my_ money."

"Dude, I didn't even—"

"Gentlemen," the Chief interrupted again, her voice sounding weary. "Please." She gestured inside her office. "Just come in and sit down. I have something important to speak with you about."

Karen turned from the doorway and settled into the chair behind her desk. The desk's surface was buried underneath reports and days-old newspapers. She pointed to the two chairs in front of her desk, before digging into the piles of paperwork. "Sit."

Shawn and Gus followed her into the office and drew the chairs closer to the desk. "So, what's this about, Chief?" Shawn asked casually as he relaxed into his seat.

"I don't know if you're aware, but we've been investigating a local producer of child pornography," Karen began, flipping through a manila folder of notes. "We don't normally handle these kind of cases; sexual exploitation of children tends to fall under federal jurisdiction. However, this was a … special circumstance."

"And you want us to help you?" Gus asked, horror obvious in his voice.

"I don't want you helping with the investigation; I want you protecting it," she looked up, giving Shawn a worried glance. "From your father."

Shawn frowned slightly. "That's going to be kinda difficult considering he works for you. What exactly am I keeping him from?"

Karen sighed, before closing the folder and dropping it on her desk. "The man we're trying to nab is Ian Stiles…your father's old partner."

"Det. Stiles? The guy they used to call 'Baby Stile'? I thought he moved to Boston years ago."

"'Baby Stile?'" Gus repeated, making a face. "What the hell kind of cop nickname is that?"

"Dude, you don't remember? He had a face like Erik Estrada and arms like Jean Claude Van-Damm. He was the youngest man on the force and was totally Ponch from_CHiPs_."

Karen and Gus looked pointedly at him.

"He was my dad's partner. He...he had nice hair. I noticed, alright," Shawn said, looking away in slight embarrassment.

"None of that excuses the lameness that is 'Baby Stile," Gus said.

"Dude! It's a pun."

"Well, it's a bad one!"

"Gentlemen! Focus." Karen snapped her fingers and drew the bickering men's attention toward her. "Yes, Det. Stiles moved to Boston ten years ago, but he's back and in quite a bit of trouble."

"What exactly has he done?" Gus asked.

"As far as we can tell, he's accused of molesting and photographing hundreds of children over a period of twenty years."

"That's more than a 'bit of trouble,'" Gus said with a sneer.

"Twenty years ago he was still on the force," Shawn supplied quietly.

"Yes," Karen answered uneasily. "We don't know how he was able to keep his...'activities' so well hidden, but he's slipped up recently. Parents of a boy in Boston brought charges up against him. They settled, but authorities there thought the claims could have been legit. Unfortunately, they couldn't find any hard evidence against him."

"What do they expect you all to do?" Gus asked.

"Stiles skipped town before Boston authorities could regroup and moved back to Santa Barbara. We assume it's because he was hoping his connections with the Santa Barbara force would protect him." Karen raised a hand to her temple and rubbed it slowly. "The feds want us to use our relationship with Stiles to find something we can pin him with."

"Does my dad know about the case?" Shawn asked.

Karen lowered her hand. "No, he doesn't. Now listen, Mr. Spencer, your father and Stiles were partners for nearly eight years. They're close. If your father heard about our investigation, he'd do everything in his power to defend him."

"You think he'd compromise the case?"

"No," Karen said with a shake of her head. "But I don't want anyone to think we gave him the opportunity."

"What do you want us to do, Chief?" Gus asked.

"You and Mr. Guster are the only ones who know both the goings-on of the department and your father. We just want you to keep an eye on him and make sure he stays out of the way."

"What about the case?" Shawn asked.

Karen looked at him in confusion. "What about it?"

Shawn plastered a smile on his face and wrapped an arm around Gus' shoulders, pulling him close. "This is a big case. Lots of repercussions. You'll of course need all of your best men—and spirits— on the job. Gus and I would be happy to take this one on, Chief."

"Oh, no we won't," Gus said pulling away.

"Thank you, but no," Karen replied, talking over Gus. "I appreciate your offer, Mr. Spencer, but we have this taken care of."

"Chief, with all due respect, I think I can provide some insight into this case that you don't have."

"And what is that, Mr. Spencer?"

Shawn froze as he racked his mind for an acceptable answer. "Uh...movies. I can tell you what type of movies he likes."

"I think we know what type of movies he likes," Gus said, his lips curled in disgust.

Karen just smiled warmly at Shawn. "Mr. Spencer, I understand that this may put you in an awkward situation. If that's the case, just tell me and I'll give the job to someone else."

"No, it's not that, Chief. It's just—"

"Good. We have this case under control, Mr. Spencer. It's messy enough without bringing you and your ... powers into the mix."

Shawn released Gus and placed his hands behind his head. "My dad will learn about the investigation sooner or later," he said as he leaned back in his chair. "What'll you do then?"

Karen studied Shawn carefully before answering. "I'll deal with that when it happens. For now, I just need to know I have your support on this issue. Understood?"

"Understood," Gus said firmly.

Karen turned to face Shawn when he didn't immediately answer. "Understand, Mr. Spencer?"

Shawn gave her a quick grin. He may have understood, but he certainly didn't agree.

"Mr. Spencer? Am I clear?"

"Perfectly, Chief."

_TBC ..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** So I'm trying out my shorter posts/more frequent update theory that I mentioned at the end of "Love is Blind." Let's see how well it works out, eh? I'm sorry for the complete absence of Lassiter in this part. Oh, Exposition! You totally get in the way of my Shassie! Now, I have a pretty good outline of where I want the story to go, but have no idea how many parts that will take, so please hang with me.

Oh! And a really large disclaimer: I wasn't born until 1987, so I've never seen an episode of _CHiPs_ in my life. Still, when I picture Det. Stiles, he looks like the young, goofy-looking one from _CHiPs_. So there you go.

Another large disclaimer: My knowledge surrounding the prosecution of child pornography cases is limited to one lecture I had in Internet Law 4720, which featured a guest speaker from my state's attorney's office. So, that is to say, my knowledge surrounding the prosecution of child pornography is pretty damn close to nil. Forgive me?

Reviewing is like an Internet hug and I love hugs! Thanks, dear readers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"We have to get on this case," Shawn stated as soon as he and Gus had stepped out of Karen's office

"And why is that?" Gus asked curtly.

"Dude, you heard the Chief. This guy's been messing with kids for over twenty years. You want a perv like that running around town?"

"No, I don't," Gus admitted. "But that's what the police are here for. Let Lassie and Juliet handle it."

"Speak of the pale, lanky devil," Shawn said under his breath. "Yo, Lassie!"

Said pale, lanky devil grimaced at the sound of his name. Carlton turned to face the two and Shawn could see his exhaustion from across the bullpen. His suit jacket was slightly rumpled, dark circles ringed his eyes and he clutched a coffee-stained mug in his right hand.

"What do you want, Spencer?" Carlton asked with a sigh.

"Lassie, I hear you and Jules are investigating an old partner of Henry's."

Carlton straightened and began to move closer to the private investigators. "That's right. Your 'friend' is accused of abusing hundreds of children. Would you know anything about that?"

Shawn flustered. "Lassie, I'm honestly insulted. I know we've never gotten along, but I'd like to believe that you know I wouldn't protect a child molestor."

To his credit, Carlton did manage to look contrite. "Sorry, Spencer." He rubbed a hand across his face. "This case has been frustrating. Your friend is slipperier than a greased-up wrestler."

"That's ... quite possibly sexiest thing I've ever heard you say."

Carlton frowned, his cheeks turning slightly red. "Spare me. Your buddy's abusing his knowledge of the justice system—of our department— to shield his sick hobby." Carlton shook his head. "Bastard," he muttered darkly.

Shawn cleared his throat. "'Buddy' may be too strong a word there, Lassie, but it does seem as if you guys could use some help. I would like to offer Gus and I as credible consults on the behavior patterns of one Ian Stiles.

"Once again, Shawn, no," Gus interrupted. No one acknowledged him.

"Thanks, but no thanks, Spencer. The last thing I need is you flailing around pretending to see the evidence." Carlton froze as a thought came upon him. "And you better not be 'seeing' any illegal evidence or I'll drag you down to the hole myself."

Shawn gave a bitter smile. "For the last time, Lassie, neither I nor the spirits take part in the exploitation of children. And I'm beginning to be insulted by the insinuation."

"Sorry. Again." Carlton turned to head toward his desk, taking a long sip from his mug as he went. Shawn followed him, dragging a reluctant Gus behind him.

"Let me and Gus help. We can predict his next move ... uh, tell you how he's getting the boys to stay quiet ... I know the spirits can help you find _something_."

"No, they can't," Gus interjected.

"Forget it, Spencer," Carlton answered at the same time. "This case is too important to risk with any of your games." The detective sat down heavily at his desk.

"Then just let us in on what you've found so far," Shawn leaned heavily onto Carlton's desk, his body startling the papers scattered across the workspace. "Organizing and tagging the evidence, maybe? We'll do it for Bono ... and the rest of U2 too, if that's what you want."

"That's _pro bono_, Shawn. And again, no we won't." Gus said, pulling his friend back from the desk.

Carlton leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Why are you so keen on getting my permission to take a case, Spencer? You've never asked before. Usually you just show up all glib and smart ass. Hell, I would have thought you'd start questioning Stiles the second you learned about the case."

Shawn stiffened. "There's nothing you could do to make me face Stiles," he said firmly. "I just want to help you catch your man."

The two men glared at each other in silence, both trying to read the other. Carlton was calm as studied the other man's face. Shawn, for all appearances, remained steady as well. Only Gus noticed the slight tick in his jaw as he struggled to mind his tongue.

"Shawn?" Gus asked, his previous annoyance replaced by concern.

Shawn stared at the detective a few more seconds before giving a reassuring glance to his best friend.

Carlton rolled his eyes and stood up from his desk. "Look, Spencer, I don't know what your reasons are for wanting to work this case and I'm sure I don't want to know; but we have too much at stake here to risk your usual flippant attitude toward proper police procedure. Stay away. In fact, if you so much Google search this case, I'll have you both arrested for interfering with a police investigation."

Carlton grabbed a thick folder off his desk and roughly pushed past the two men. He strolled through the busy bullpen and knocked on the door of Karen's office.

Shawn exhaled loudly. "I hate office politics," he mumbled.

"So," Gus began as they watched the two officers through the chief's glass walls. "What'll we do now? We don't have a case but at least we have a job. Want to go grab some nachos?"

"Nah," Shawn said. He glanced quickly at his watch. "I'll see you later tonight. I've got some errands to run."

* * *

><p>When Shawn showed up at the front door of his apartment dressed head to toe in black, with a crow bar hanging off his hip and a mesh bag filled with dirty clothes slung over his shoulder, Gus knew it was going to be a bad night.<p>

"Go away, Shawn," he called from behind his closed door.

Shawn held up a black pullover. "Oh, come on, dude. I just spent 80 bucks on matching lightweight sweaters. It'll be awesome. Haven't you always wanted to be a cat burglar?"

"I said, 'go away.'"

"Gus!" Shawn whined, "I can't believe you. You know black is your color."

The silence on the other side of the door was deafening. Shawn replayed his comment in his head, then grimaced.

"I totally didn't mean it that way," he yelled at the door.

"I'm not breaking into a detective's house, Shawn, especially a detective who's a suspected pedophile."

"Well considering neither one of us are underage—"

"_No_, Shawn. Both Lassiter and the chief made it very clear we're to stay far away. We were hired to protect the integrity of this case, remember?

"Aw, come on, Gus. There's nothing to worry about. It's not like we haven't broken into peoples homes before." Shawn lowered the mesh bag from his shoulder and pulled a small bundle from the pile of clothes. "Look! I've got gloves to match the sweaters."

Gus opened the door to his apartment, but kept the security chain latched. He studied the articles of clothing Shawn held up. "Those are dress socks, Shawn. _My_dress socks."

Shawn wadded the socks back together and tossed them back into the bag. "Look, I spent all my money on the sweaters, alright? Now will you come on?"

"For. Get. It." Gus said. He thrust a hand through the narrow space between the door and the frame. "Give me back my socks and go home, Shawn. Stiles may be a sick pervert, but he's still a cop. If you go creeping around his property, you'll probably end up getting shot. I'm too tired to stay up all night in an emergency waiting room with you."

Shawn shook his head. "Stiles isn't home. He packed a bag and left town this afternoon. From what I observed, he'll be gone all weekend."

"'Observed?' You only learned he was back in town eight hours ago. Don't tell me you've spent the afternoon following him."

"Of course not," Shawn replied. "How long have you known me? My bladder is much too small for stake outs."

Gus forked an eyebrow.

Shawn grinned. "Lassie's been following him. And I may have stolen and photocopied some of his case notes."

Gus slammed the door shut.

"Gus," Shawn sighed, knocking on the door. "Come on. I … I need you to do this with me. I can't … " He leaned against the door and ran a hand through his hair. "I can't do this alone."

Silence.

"Please, Gus. I need your help."

Shawn waited. Waited to hear the click of the door knob or anything that would signify that his best friend was going to walk out that door and go with him as he confronted the demons surrounding one of the most influential men in his life.

He waited…and nothing. Shawn pushed off from the door and took a deep breath in. He couldn't blame Gus for his reluctance to join him. Stiles meant nothing to _him_.

"Fine, Gus," Shawn exhaled. "I'll just head over there myself. Will you at least meet me back at the Psych office in two hours?"

No answer from behind Gus' heavy door.

"I'll bring nachos."

Still no answer. Shawn slowly turned away, readjusted the sack over his shoulder and made his way down the front steps. He hadn't even reached his bike when he heard the sound of Gus' door opening then being pulled tightly shut.

"Why do you always do that?" Gus called out over the clinging of keys against a lock. He sounded annoyed but resigned to his fate of burglary wingman.

Shawn smiled to himself. The relief that swept through him nearly left him lightheaded. He repressed the grin before turning to face Gus. "Do what?"

"Make me feel guilty for not wanting to help you break the law. You did the same thing when I refused to help you steal that pony you named Snuzzles from that traveling petting zoo."

When Gus got close enough, Shawn tossed him the extra pullover. "Her little pony friends missed her," he said with a smirk.

Gus just rolled his eyes and pulled the sweater over his head. He studied the lightweight wool, rubbing his hands along the sleeves, then turned to give Shawn a pleased grin. "Is this cashmere?"

"Black is your color, isn't it?"

Gus pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. "Got that right."

_TBC ..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**I've said it once and I'll probably say it over and over: I love writing Shawn and Gus together. Still no Shassie yet, but it'll come. The way I have this story playing out in my head, Lassie will play a bigger role later on. Right now, we have to deal with Shawn's demons.

(P.S. Sorry this update took so long. I had another piece I had to finish up before I could concentrate on this one. It's all done now, so this fic can get all of my attention.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

For the home of former cop, Ian Stiles home was much easier to break into than Shawn had previously planned. Stiles had just returned to Santa Barbara and had yet to install stronger padlocks on the front door of his new home. It took Gus all of ten minutes to pick the locks and get them in.

Shawn didn't even get to take the price tag off his new crowbar.

"Well, that was a waste of $20," he mumbled. He dropped both the crowbar and the bag of clothes on the entryway floor and looked around the dark living room. The house was in complete disarray. Boxes labeled "living" and "dining" were stacked against the walls to varying heights, and scraps of newspaper and bubble wrap littered the floor. An unassembled dining room table lay in the middle of the room, with a tan leather recliner and a messy side table a few feet away.

Gus stopped studying the cluttered room to give Shawn a curious look.

"Where did you get all this spending money, Shawn?"

"I may or may not have borrowed your debit card."

Gus glared.

"I did," Shawn said unapologetically.

"You said you bought all this stuff!"

"Right. I bought it; you paid for it."

"You're giving me that sweater when we're done with all this," Gus said, scowling. He gestured toward the bag Shawn was carrying. "What's with the clothes?"

"The laundromat near my apartment just increased their prices and Henry's being … Henry. I was hoping I'd get some laundry done, but from the looks it, I doubt Stiles has gotten his machines hooked up."

"You brought your dirty laundry to a break-in?"

"Is that rude?"

"You're a horrible criminal, Shawn."

"Just start looking. And try and put things back just like you found them. Stiles worked crimes scenes for nearly 20 years; there's a good chance he'll know we were here."

"Says the man who'd planned on making tonight laundry night."

Gus walked over to a stack of boxes and opened the top box. Inside sat the ugliest set of dishes Gus had ever seen. (Stag heads did not belong on dinner plates.)

He shoved the box aside and open another labeled "bookcase." More stags sat nestled in a bed of newspaper and plastic shopping bags. Gus gingerly pulled out a porcelain buck that was previously a 12-point, but (most likely due to the destructive nature of gravity and hardwood floors) had been reduced to an eight-point.

Nearly three years in law enforcement and Gus had learned one thing for fact: Suspected dirty cops had tacky tastes in interior design. "What are we looking for Shawn?" he asked, tossing the figurine back into the box.

"Dude, I don't know," Shawn answered from the kitchen. Gus could hear the sound of a refrigerator door slamming. "A trench coat and fedora. Signs Stiles has been hanging out in bushes late at night. Photos of him with a porn 'stache. You'll know it when you see it."

"You're overestimating how much I know about sickos," Gus replied as he poked around another box. "The cops haven't been able to find anything on this guy and they know a lot more about this stuff than I do."

Shawn returned to the main living room with a soda in one hand and a sandwich hanging out of his mouth. He plopped down in the recliner and took a bite out of his sandwich.

"Trust me, Gus. Stiles is charming and charismatic, but he's no criminal mastermind." Shawn said around a mouthful of white bread. He placed his snack on the arm of the chair and began picking through a pile of mail on the side table. "He's going to slip up and we'll be there to catch him as he falls right on his ass."

"He's got all three of the _Spy Kids_ movies," Gus commented. "That's kind of suspicious."

"Keep looking."

"And the entire series of _Webster_? There's something wrong with this guy, Shawn."

"Keep looking," Shawn repeated.

After a few more minutes of digging through a box of dusty true-crime novels, Gus stood up in frustration. "There's nothing here, Shawn, but old man crap. Anything incriminating is probably still packed up." He nudged the box back to the wall with his foot.

Shawn stopped rifling through the papers to look over at Gus. "Why do you think Stiles moved back to Santa Barbara?" he asked.

"The Chief said because he thought he was safe here."

"He had to have known that the police in Boston would have tried contacting the police here. He can't possibly be that cocky. Wouldn't it have made more sense to go where nobody knows him?"

"Not really. He has a history here, yeah, but he also has contacts here. He has your father here." Gus thought for a moment. "When do you plan on telling your dad about the investigation?"

Shawn tossed the mail on the side table and leaned back in the recliner. "He's a smart man; he'll learn about it out on his own," he said before sipping at his soda.

"Honestly, I'm surprised he hasn't already found out about it. It's been six full hours."

"Old age has not been kind to my father, Gus—Oh! Doodles!" Shawn picked up a yellow legal pad that caught his eye sitting on the side table. "Did you know that psychologists can now diagnose a person with a major mental illness simply by studying their doodles?"

"No, they can't, Shawn."

"You're right; they can't. But you can determine their contacts by reading the list of phone numbers and address they write down right next to the doodles."

Gus hurried over to join Shawn at the recliner. "He wouldn't make it that easy for us, would he?" he asked as he peered at the paper.

"'6:30 p.m., 3569 San Pascual Street,'" Shawn read aloud. "You know I'm horrible with directions. Where's the closest IHOP to this address?"

"San Pascual Street? That's near Perv Parkway," Gus mumbled.

"What?"

"'Perv Parkway. It runs along Highway 101. Because of laws that limit how close sex offenders can live to parks or schools, there are only a few places in the city where they can live. That part of the interstate has the highest number of sexual offenders in the city."

"Dude, how the hell do you know that?"

"Because, Shawn, unlike you, I care about our city's crime statistics."

"That's disturbing."

"That's practical. We're employed by a police station, Shawn."

"You make me uncomfortable," Shawn whispered.

"Whatever." Gus snatched the yellow pad from Shawn. "Most of these other addresses are near Perv Parkway. Who could Stiles possibly be meeting down there?"

"I think we know the 'who,' Gus. It's the 'why' that matters now."

"I'd just like to go on record saying I'm extremely uncomfortable with every aspect of this investigation. I think I need a shower."

Shawn put the legal pad back where he found it underneath the pile of letters. "Well, scrub up while you can. We're heading over there tomorrow."

"Oh, no we're not. We've gotten too involved as it is. You heard what Lassiter said."

"There was something about 'Google,' right?"

"Forget it, Shawn."

"Gus! I can't go over and hang out with a bunch of pervs by myself. I need you there being all uptight and pretending to judge them and their way of life."

"I _do_ judge them and their way of life."

"See? You're a necessary part of this investigation."

Gus rubbed his neck wearily. "Something about this doesn't feel right, Shawn. This is too easy. A suspected child pornographer returns to town and starts hanging out with a bunch of convicted child molesters? _What!_"

"Gus—"

"I think we should just leave this to the police, Shawn."

"Gus," Shawn ran a hand through his hair. "We can figure out what he's doing with the photographs and the videos, and we can find them. We have to." Shawn finished seriously.

"And why is that?"

"We owe it to the kids."

"I don't know why you're so interested in helping out with this case, Shawn, but..." Gus sighed deeply. "As long as you promise nobody we question will touch me, I'll help you out."

Shawn grinned. "I'll do my best."

Gus looked over at the side table. Crumbs were sprinkled everywhere and a damp ring marred the polished wood. "Dude, look at this mess! Does the kitchen look like this?"

"I may or may not have spilled his new jar of Miracle Whip all over the kitchen counter."

Gus glared.

"I didn't!" Shawn said placatingly. He could feel his pocket vibrate as his phone signaled a new text message. "You've got to stop taking me so seriously," he told his partner as he pulled the phone from his pocket.

A text message from his father popped on the screen. It was curt, as Henry's messages tended to be, and stated only "_Call me. NOW._"

"I try not to take you seriously at all," Gus answered as swept bread crumbs into his hand. "Come on. We've got a lead, now let's get out of here. Who are you texting?"

"My father." Shawn announced as he clicked through the message. "Apparently he needs to talk to me."

"Why?"

"If I had to guess, he's just found out about Stiles."

_TBC_

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Guys, I think I bit off more than I can chew with this story. I somehow, inadvertently, started a case-fic...sort of. It's not a traditional case-fic in that we know who did what; it's more of a matter of describing how. Nevertheless, I want all the details to work out and make a logical story. So, I've had to scrap my usually writing method of typing aimlessly and seeing what comes of it. (Oh my god, did I just admit that?) I don't know how I feel about the voice of this story. I feel stuck in a rut. I feel like I use too many adverbs. I feel that I may be able to fix it before the story gets any deeper.

Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed! I know it's been slow going and I can't promise that it will get any faster. But, I can promise that it will get finished. If I may ask a favor, when (or if...I won't be presumptuous) you leave a comment, tell me your biggest case-fic pet peeve. I need some different perspectives so I can make this story as strong as possible. Thanks again! =D

(P.S. Would anybody be offended if the next chapter featured Shawn and Gus hanging out with a senile old flasher? Because that's where it's headed.)

(P.P.S. I made Perv Parkway up...but there are a whole lotta sex offenders near Highway 101 in the city of Santa Barbara. I know because I looked it up. Because I love you all_ that_ much.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Beep_

_"You have 8 new messages. Message one:"_

"Shawn, this is your father. I know you got my text. Call me back when you get this. Bye."

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message two:"_

"Shawn! I'm not playing around, kid. Call me back."

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message three:"_

"Shawn!—"

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message—"_

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message—"_

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message—"_

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message—"_

_Beep_

_"Message deleted. Message eight:"_

"Listen, kid, I'll find you and I'll make you tell me everything that's going on, you hear me? I've know you since you were pooping in your pants—which, by the way, you didn't stop doing until you were six. You can't avoid—"

_"Message deleted. End of messages."_

* * *

><p>"I still can't believe I let you talk me into this." Gus tightened his grip on the Blueberry's steering wheel and looked around the street cautiously.<p>

"Didn't take much talking, buddy."

"This is a crime, Shawn. Even if you ignore the fact that we're already participating too much in a case we were told to stay away from, we could totally get arrested for this."

"We're just visiting an old friend."

"We're _trespassing_. Using the sexual offender database to commit a crime is, in itself, a crime."

"Alright, dude, you are seriously starting to creep me out with how much you know about perverts."

"That's common knowledge, Shawn."

"Common creeper knowledge, maybe."

"It was posted on the offender registry website in big red letters."

"Mm-_hmm_," Shawn replied skeptically. He got out of the car and stood in the street to look around. He was surprised by the normalcy of the neighborhood. It wasn't Wisteria Lane by any stretch of imagination, but it was the red-lit skid row he was expecting, either. The houses were small and plain, but were also clean and well-kept. A few old men sat at a nearby bus stop, laughing amongst themselves.

"You know, Gus, this isn't really what I thought a neighborhood full of perverts would look like."

Gus pulled Shawn to the sidewalk and out of the path of an oncoming pick-up truck. "What were you expecting?"

"I don't know…dilapidation, shady trench-coated characters hanging out on the corner, a permanent state of nighttime."

"It _is_a bit too sunny out here," Gus agreed. "Where's the house were going to?"

"3569 San Pascual Street. Home of a Mr. Leonard Jones," Shawn pointed to a squat one-story house across the street with an assortment of stone garden elves in the front yard. "Again," he said with a slight waver of distaste in his voice, "this was not what I was expecting."

It took nearly two minutes of knocking (and Shawn singing) before a short, thin man with a scowl answered the front door.

"Can I help you two?"

Shawn smiled brightly. "Hello, sir. I'm Shawn Spencer and this is my friend, Mr. Johnny Klean. That's 'Klean' with a 'K.' Please refrain from making any Mr. Clean jokes, as it sends him into a murderous rage."

"What do you want, boy?" The man asked with a sigh.

"We just moved to this area and thought it would be nice to meet some of the neighbors. Leonard, is it?"

The man frowned. "How do you know my name?"

Shawn smiled. "No worries, man. My buddy and I aren't here to cause any trouble. To be honest, we're actually uh—how do you guys put it?— we're all friends of Pee-Wee Herman."

The man just cocked an eyebrow.

"We're in the same book club?"

More staring.

"We're all on the same list is what I'm getting at."

Gus snapped his head sharply in Shawn's direction to give him a look of both disgusted horror and repressed rage. "Shawn!"

Leonard began to close the door on them, but Shawn stuck his foot in the door jamb.

"Look, dude, we're not here to harass you. We've just got a few questions about the way things work around here."

"Get off my property before I get the police back out here to haul your asses off."

That caught Shawn's attention. "'Back?' Have some officers been out here already? Did one of them look like the Man in the Yellow Hat only without the yellow hat … or curious monkey?"

"No," the thin man said in a huff. "There was only one guy out here. A Miles or Giles or something."

"Stiles," Gus muttered, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

"Yeah, Stiles," the man repeated with a sneer.

"What did Det. Stiles want, Lenny?"

"I'm still not sure," Leonard said with disdain in his voice. "Your friend came around here the other day talking some crap about being a resource I could rely on if I ever felt 'weak.'"

"You disgust me," Gus said evenly.

"Gus," Shawn said lightly. "Could you judge our new neighbor a little more quietly?"

"You're allowed to judge child molesters as loud as you want, Shawn. Ask anyone." Gus crossed his arms and looked Leonard up and down. "I hope a group of angry and hormonally precocious elementary school children kick your ass."

"Calm down, baldy," Leonard said, scratching his beard. "I never touched any kids…or anyone, actually. I got on that list for flashing my boss' wife during a company picnic."

"Well, that hardly seems severe enough to be declared a sex offender," Shawn said.

"It was an annual event," Leonard said, shrugging his narrow shoulders. "Every summer at our company's Fourth of July picnic, I'd fall off the wagon and out of my clothes."

"...Ew," Gus said with a curl of his upper lip.

The man ignored Gus' exclamation. "The point is, despite what your police friend thinks, I know how to keep my hands to myself."

"Ew," Gus repeated.

"Why does everyone think he's my friend?" Shawn asked no one in particular.

"Listen, boys," Leonard continued. "I've been on that list for the last ten years. I've haven't stepped out of line since getting on it. Why the hell do the police think I need looking after?"

"They don't," Gus said softly.

Shawn gave Gus a curious look. "Did Det. Stiles talk to anyone else?" he asked.

"Why do you want to know?" Leonard asked suspiciously. "I thought you were out just meeting the neighbors."

"Oh, we are. But we want to meet the ones Det. Stiles was meeting," Shawn replied.

"_He_wants to," Gus corrected. "I just want to run far, far away."

The older man gave them both a skeptical look before rolling his eyes and kicking Shawn in the shin.

"What the hell?" Shawn screeched as he jumped back. Leonard slammed the door shut and quickly latched the security chain on his front door. He cracked the door and glared out from the narrow opening.

"You two boys go home," he ordered. "Keep asking questions like that around here and you're gonna cause some serious problems."

The door slammed closed again.

Gus shook his head nervously. "I have a bad feeling about this, Shawn."

"Me too, dude. That was bone he kicked."

"I'm serious, Shawn. Cops don't keep tabs of sex offenders like that. Probation officers do. And I don't think they go door-to-door offering resources and advice."

"There you go again with the creepy."

Gus ignored the jab. "And why was he even talking to _this_guy? Exhibitionism is a pretty petty crime."

"I don't think he knew that, Gus." Shawn rubbed his shin. "If I had known Legs was gonna kick me, _we_wouldn't have been talking to him."

"Stiles made a mistake coming out here, Shawn," Gus said as realization hit him.

"I told you he was no genius. He just knows the rules to the game better than your average criminal."

"Shawn," Gus said forcefully. "Stiles was in the middle of unpacking when we broke into his house. Food, recliner chair, horrifying evidence of child sexual abuse. He isn't running around looking for pervy friends to get more porn. He's hiding it by giving it to the one group of people he knows can't resist it."

* * *

><p>Eight rounds of endless pancakes at IHOP and the ick Shawn and Gus felt following their findings in Perv Parkway still refused to disappear.<p>

Shawn could have gone for more, but with Gus refusing to pay for his meal ("Don't forget, Shawn," he'd told him through a mouthful of strawberry pancakes, "you told some old flasher I was a sex offender. I'm still mad about that."), he decided to just head home and sleep it off.

He'd collapsed into his couch and was preparing to drop off when his phone rang. Considering the hour, it was either Gus (doubtful, as he would be in the midst of his own syrup-induced sugar crash right about now) or his father.

"Papa!" he squealed into the phone cheerily. "I haven't heard from you in ages."

"Save it. I want you to tell me everything that's going on, Shawn."

"Well, I'm currently lying in my dark living room while wearing a pair of blue jeans, a navy polo and my khaki jacket. The television isn't on, but I think my bedroom stereo is, as I can hear the voices of Prince and Apollonia in the distance—"

"What's going on with the _case_, Shawn!"

"I'd love to share that with you, Father," he replied seriously, "but I'm legally forbidden to talk it."

"I'm your father, Shawn, and we're talking about a man I worked with, trusted my life with, for almost 10 years. If he's done what they've accused him of doing, I have a right to know."

Shawn could feel bile rising in his throat. "A _right_to know. That's interesting, Dad. I would have thought you would have been the first to know."

"What do you mean by that?" Henry asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"You didn't suspect _anything_, Dad? Nothing at all?"

"Believe me, Shawn, if I thought Stiles was capable of doing anything like what he's been accused of, I'd have brought him in myself. I'm an _officer_. It's my duty to serve and protect."

"'_Protect_,'" Shawn repeated with a scoff. "Well, I'll be glad to inform you that you did a slightly better job at that than Stiles did."

"What are you talking about, Shawn?"

"Don't want to talk, Dad. Have a good night."

"Shawn, we're not done—"

Shawn switched his phone off and tossed it on his coffee table. His father's voice rang in his head. _Serve and protect. Serve and protect. Serve and protect. _

He ran to the bathroom and retched.

_TBC..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**This chapter! *random angry flailing.* Writing this chapter wasn't hard; coming up with Stiles crime and cover-up was. In the first couple chapters, I wrote him as some sort of slick justice evader. I had a hard time thinking up of the perfect cover-up to fit that image. (I'm no criminal! I'm the type of person who you can just look at and know she's lying.)

At some point, I just decided "fuck it" and just go with some sort of realistic cover-up. It didn't have to be the level of genius I wanted it to be. The whole point of this story was to let me write some Shasshie hurt/comfort, not the perfect mystery novel.

Still, I hope it doesn't disappoint and isn't too cliche.

(Random tangent: Guys, I cannot watch post-season three _Psych_and then expect to write Shassie. Just can't do it. The Shules, while cute, just destroys any Shassie-shipping opportunity the show once had. So I don't plan to write much season four/five/six Shassie, unless the current couples break up or something.

I will say this, though: Seeing Shawn and Lassiter in relationships is rather endearing, because it turns out they are rather good at it. Carlton's a bit over-eager and Shawn's not always the most serious, but they are committed and loving. _D'awwwwyouguys_!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Come again?"

"I want you two to work for me at my cupcakery." _Psych_'s newest potential client looked at Gus eagerly and handed him a cream-colored business card with the words _Cups of Cake_ scribbled across the top.

"We're not bakers," Gus replied, giving the card a quick glance. "We're not even decent microwavers."

"No, but you're detectives," the short man exclaimed. He pulled a clipping of a local grocery ad out from his pants pocket and gave it to Gus. "That's _my _award winning red-velvet cupcake they're selling. Somehow they got my recipe and I want to know how. I've asked around. People say you'll take cases the police won't."

"I don't think so," Shawn said from his desk where he was flipping through a yellow legal pad of notes.

"I know it sounds crazy, but my recipe is unique." The baker opened a pale green pastry box he'd brought with him and pulled out two large cupcakes. "Here. I've baked you one of my cakes and bought one from Garbo's grocery. Taste for yourself."

He cut the desserts in half and placed a sample of each on a paper doily. Gus eagerly accepted the treats and took a large bite of the baker's cupcake.

"Mmmm…" he said with relish. "This is good stuff right here. Come try some, Shawn."

Shawn passed with a wave of his hand. "I'm sorry," he said, never looking up from his work, "but we're currently working on a case that requires all of our attention."

"What?" Gus mumbled, mouth full of cake.

"And as delicious as your offer sounds, we're going to have to pass."

"But...but you didn't even try the cake," the baker stammered.

"I'm sorry," Shawn repeated, turning on his laptop.

"Excuse me for a minute, sir." Gus turned and hurried to where Shawn was sitting. "Dude, what are you doing? You're turning down the opportunity to work at a cupcakery. You do realize that cupcakes are the current 'in' dessert, don't you?"

"We're still busy with the Stiles case. It would be irresponsible of us to take two cases at the same time."

"What! We take multiple cases all the time."

"Yeah, but never on anything this big."

"Shawn, technically the only thing we're supposed to be doing with that case is keeping your dad from it. That's not a full-time job."

"And what better way to keep my father away from this case then by solving it." Shawn snatched the remaining bite of Gus' cupcake and popped it in his mouth. "That _is_good," he commented before turning back to his computer.

Gus snuck a look at the anxious baker and turned back to Shawn. "It's been a week, Shawn," he whispered lowly. "The police are handling everything and you've successfully been avoiding your father. We can take this. I _need _to take this."

"You need a loan, dude? I can spot you some money."

Gus scoffed. "No, I don't, Shawn, and no, you can't. But, since I started working with you I've seen more dead bodies than I've ever cared to, been shot at and held hostage in a bank. I've seen a lot of bad stuff, Shawn. This—child pornography and all related crimes—is something I'd rather leave to the professionals."

Shawn gave his friend a sympathetic smile before turning to their visitor. "Your kitchen manager," he said simply.

"Excuse me?"

"You've never given anyone the recipe, correct?"

"Correct," the baker said emphatically. "That recipe is a family secret. I'm the only one in the shop who even bakes it."

"Your kitchen manager orders all your ingredients and records how many of each type of cupcake you bake. It wouldn't be that difficult for him to watch you, keep an eye on how fast the ingredients were being used and figure out how much of what to mix with what. Keep an eye on him; he's your leak."

"You're sure?"

"As sure as I can be without viewing any evidence, visiting your shop or speaking to any of your employees."

The baker stood up and moved quickly to shake Shawn's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer! Thank you." He grabbed his cake box and hurried toward the door. "I'll make you both a batch of cupcakes once I get to the bottom of this." He waved again before he rushed out of the office.

"I can't believe you just did that," Gus said soon after the baker bustled out the door.

"Did what?" Shawn asked, his attention focused back on his computer screen.

"Turned down a job. Worse, turned down a job that involved getting paid to hang out at a bakery and eat free food all day. What's going on, Shawn?"

"Dude, I told you, I'm just busy with the Stiles case."

"You're never busy with a case, Shawn." Gus moved to stand behind Shawn and looked over his work on the computer screen. "Why are you back at the sex offender registry?"

"There's hundreds of registered sex offenders in city and who knows how many who just haven't been caught yet. Those photos could be anywhere."

"Why do we care?"

"We're gonna have to go back and get some names from our dear friend Lenny."

"He's not our friend, Shawn," Gus said sternly. "He's not our friend and this is not our case."

"I wonder if I could get Lassie to bring him in," Shawn wondered aloud to himself.

"Probably not."

Shawn ignored him and continued scrolling through the database

"Why is this so important to you, Shawn?" Gus asked a moment later.

"It just is. I told you that."

"No, you never told me anything. Is it because he was your father's partner? Is this something you're trying to use to piss him off?"

"No."

"It can't be because you believe the guy's innocent."

"I don't—"

"Then what, Shawn? Why are we chatting up flashers, getting kicked or having perverts think we're perverts when the police can be doing all that?"

"I just need to figure out what he's doing with the photos. I—_we_have to be the ones to solve this. Understand?"

"No," Gus answered. "And I usually get all your weird obsessions. Is there something I'm missing here."

Shawn sighed, stood up from his desk and ripped some scribbled notes off his notepad. "I gotta go to the police station. Dude, you go hang out with Cake Boss and we'll meet up for jerk chicken later tonight."

"Shawn," Gus began.

"Bring me back a strawberry shortcake cupcake," Shawn shouted out before breezing out the door.

"Shawn—" Gus was cut off by the slam of the _Psych _office door.

* * *

><p>"Go. Away. Spencer." Carlton gave the younger man a stern glare before turning back to his computer screen.<p>

"Dude, you don't even know why I'm here."

"No, but I do see you're here alone, which means one of two things. Either A, you and Guster had a fight; or B, you're bored and are here to hit on O'Hara." Carlton stood up and grabbed Shawn by the shoulders. He turned him away from his desk and began leading him out the bullpen. "Now, I'm a very busy man, Spencer. So make up with Guster and stay out of my way."

"Gus and I didn't have a fight," Shawn said lightly before slipping out of Carlton's grasp. "We've just decided that we could increase our productivity 200 percent by splitting up our work load."

"Well, your help isn't needed here."

"But the spirits have given me a hunch."

"I thought I told you to stay out of this, Spencer."

"You told me, not the spirits."

"Do the 'spirits' know anything about the supposed break in at Stiles home last week?"

Shawn stiffened. "Break-in?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," Carlton said eyeing Shawn. "Apparently, someone—or _someones_—broke into Det. Stiles house while he was out of town. Didn't take anything, but they apparently dug through all his belongings and ate some of his food. Stupidly opened a new jar of Miracle Whip as if no one would notice that. You and the 'spirits' wouldn't know anything about that would you?"

"Was there any evidence?"

"No," Carlton said after a beat.

Shawn closed his eyes and raised his hands to his temple. "Then, nope," he answered quickly, dropping his hand to his side. "But they do have a witness."

That piqued Carlton's interest. "Witness? A witness to what?"

"To Stiles' being a creepy creeper who gives even perverts the creeps."

"In other words, nothing." Carlton turned away from Shawn and sat back down at his desk.

"This isn't just a normal character witness," Shawn argued. "He knows what Stiles' has been up to since moving back to Santa Barbara."

"_I _know what Stiles has been up to since he moved back to Santa Barbara, Spencer. I've been tailing him since he moved back to town."

"So did you see him questioning perverts over off Highway 101 last week?"

Carlton leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I saw him speaking with people over there, yes. How do you know about that?"

Shawn just waved his hand near his temple. "You have to go interview those guys. They know the truth about Stiles. They have the evidence."

"Already did, Spencer. None of them talked. Besides, even if they did, convicted sex offenders aren't exactly the most credible witnesses."

"I can lead you one who'll talk. He's not even that big of a pervert if you keep him away from alcohol. He just needs some roughening up. Go show him your adorable growly face, flash your gun and talk like Clint Eastwood." Shawn reached out to pinch Carlton's cheeks, but was swatted away.

"Spencer..." Carlton began, his voice tired.

"And your shins. Make sure you guard your shins."

"Spencer," the detective began again slowly, "I've been trying to be more patient with you about this case considering your father _was_ Stiles' partner and since you've been slightly less of a pain in my ass lately."

"That's ... unexpected."

"But you are two smart-ass comments away from getting locked up for interfering with a police investigation."

"Flirting with you is interfering with a police investigation?" Shawn asked seriously.

Carlton's face flushed bright red. "One smart-ass comment." He stood and began ushering Shawn away from his desk. "Now, for the last time, stay away from Stiles. This guy is bad news. Leave him alone." He gave Shawn a gentle shove before sitting back down at his desk.

Shawn snorted at Carlton's comment. "About 15 years too late for that, Lassie," he mumbled darkly.

"What was that?"

Shawn shook his head. "Nothing." He shuffled nervously, hesitant to leave. "Lassiter, one last question."

"Hmmm?"

"If you catch Stiles and find all the evidence of his ... work, what will happen to it?"

"To what? The photos and videos?"

Shawn just nodded.

"It will all be confiscated. Some of it may be presented at his trial and after that, all of it will be destroyed. You should know that."

"Of course I do," Shawn replied in what he hoped was his casual voice. "I guess I just want to know how long it'll be at the station before the trial."

The detective gave Shawn a curious look before answering. "That's not up to us. It's up to the D.A."

"Of course," Shawn answered.

"Spencer," Carlton waved Shawn closer and lowered his voice as the other man approached him. "If you know something about Stiles, if you have any sort information that can help us nab this guy, telling me would be the best thing you could do. You can remain completely anonymous, you know that, right?"

Shawn nodded. "How many of these types of cases have you worked?" he asked, switching the subject.

Carlton frowned. "Enough to know they rarely end well. We can catch the guys who do this and put them in jail, but we can't do much for the actual victims. Family members of murder victims can at least get closure that their loved ones aren't suffering anymore. The kids these guys target don't get that same guarantee."

"I've never heard you give much thought about the victims before, Lassie."

Carlton shrugged. "We've never had a serious conversation before."

Shawn gave that some thought. "Well, then, we should do it more often." Shawn gave a quick nod. "Later, Lassie," he said. He walked out of the bullpen before Carlton could respond.

* * *

><p>Shawn needed to get Gus back quick. Perv Parkway was too hard to get to by public transportation.<p>

It'd been a week since he and Gus had last spoke with him and Leonard Jones was still Shawn's best (and so far only) lead. If he couldn't get Carlton to come talk to him, Shawn would have to bring Leonard to Carlton. And he didn't care how much bribe money, shots of booze or threats of incarceration it would take, Shawn would get him to talk.

Shawn knocked on the door of the cranky ex-flasher, and as his fist hit the door, it opened slightly.

"That's weird," Shawn said aloud. Leonard had appeared to be way to antisocial to leave his front door unlocked, much less open.

He pushed the door open to look into the front foyer. "Mr. Jones!"' he shouted. The call echoed throughout the quiet house.

A voice in the back of Shawn's head told him something about the situation was off and it'd be a good idea to call the police or, at the very least, Gus. And as Shawn tended to do when that voice spoke up, he ignored it.

"Mr. Jones," he called out again, "It's the guy you kicked last week. Just in case you kick a lot of people, I was the good-looking one."

No answer.

Shawn crept into the empty living room and looked around for signs that the man was home. A set of car keys sat in a clean ashtray on the coffee table and a jacket was thrown across the arm of the couch. Somebody was home.

"Mr. Jones?" Shawn walked down the house's narrow hallway and stopped suddenly in front of the bathroom.

Sprawled across the green-tiled floor was the body of Leonard Jones.

And about 10 inches from that were his brains.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **I apologize for taking so long to post this. I finished writing it a while back and was procrastinating in editing it. New semester, job, blah, blah, tired excuses. I made this chapter longer in repentance. Please don't give up on me! (Good news: Chapter 6 is mostly written, too. It needs a few more scenes and some editing. FEEL FREE TO GUILT ME INTO POSTING IT THIS WEEK!)

We're halfway through and things are moving along now. We've even _finally! _hit some Shassie. =D What's more, murder means Shassie has to come out to Perv Parkway. Shawn, Lassie and a dead body. Best date ever.

Please forgive any typos you see the first 24 hours. I wanted to get the chapter up, and I'm trying to seriously edit, but it's late, I'm sleepy and I'm trying to seriously edit. Not a good combo. And, cupcakes. I really want a cupcake. Carrot, please. I hate red-velvet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_"Ebony And Ivory Live Together In Perfect Harmony...  
>Ebony And Ivory Live Together In Perfect Harmony..."<em>

Gus woke to the sound of his phone vibrating and the harmonious voices of Stevie and Paul. He reached across his bed and snatched the buzzing nuisance off the nightstand. "6 AM" the phone's display read brightly. An early morning phone call and pop tunes calling for interracial cooperation. It didn't take much to figure out who was on the other line.

"Nghhhh," Gus called out after answering. He didn't even bother to bring the phone to his ear, flipping on the speaker phone instead.

"Gus?" Shawn replied.

"What?" the other asked, still half asleep.

"Dude, break in the case." Shawn was too chipper considering how early it was, especially considering he normally slept until well after noon on the weekends.

"What case? Cupcake case?"

"Our good friend is dead."

"Who the baker?"

"No, dude. Lenny. Lenny, the crotchety flasher. Can you please try and stay focused?"

"I'm focused, Shawn." Gus yawned before continuing. "Focused how nice these 500-thread count sheets feel."

"Gus, get up! I need you. There have been some major developments in our case."

"No more perverts, Shawn. That's my new rule."

"No, see, there's no problem anymore. Now, it's just a plain old murder case, which you should be totally fine with."

"I'm not, Shawn, and you're wasting my minutes with this foolishness. Goodbye." Gus buried deeper into his sheets and blankets and prepared to drop back off to sleep.

"Gus!" Shawn shouted, jarring the other man awake. "I need you to meet me at the station and help me drag the others over to his house."

"You can do that yourself."

"They take me more seriously when you're around."

"Barely."

"Just grab us some breakfast and meet me at the station. We're too far in to give up now."

As the sound of the dial tone filled Gus' otherwise quiet bedroom, he sighed and sat up. He rolled out of bed and padded across his chilly floor, cursing his decision to remain friends with a flighty man-child with a clear death wish.

* * *

><p>"Gus, they're so bright!" Shawn stumbled awkwardly into Karen Vick's crowded office, eyes squeezed shut, feeling up the walls and nearby head detectives. "They're burning my retinas."<p>

"What is, Shawn? A flashlight?" Gus asked. He hovered cautiously behind Shawn, keeping the other man from tripping. "Strobe lights? A traffic signal?"

Shawn shook his head. He straightened and raised his hands. He opened and closed his fists. "No, nothing like that. They're not really blinking, they're not really sparkling, they're...they're..."

"Flashing?" Juliet offered.

"Yes!" Shawn said, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "That's it. I see bright flashes going off over and over. Flash, flash, flash, fla—" Shawn stilled. He lowered his hands from his head and opened his eyes. He looked around the office, blinking rapidly as if trying to clear his vision.

"They stopped," Shawn said quietly. "The flashes have stopped."

"And what does that mean, Mr. Spencer?" Karen asked with a resigned sigh.

"Oh, Chief, I have a bad feeling about this." Shawn raised his hand to his head and closed his eyes again. "I can't see them anymore. Something—someone—has made the flashes stopped."

"Someone murdered the flashes?" Gus asked dramatically.

"Yes, Gus! That's exactly it!"

"What?" Carlton said in disbelief. "How exactly do you murder a flash, Spencer?"

"No, Lassie, not a flash, but a flasher."

"Someone murdered a flasher?" Karen repeated.

"Yes, Chief. As Gus could tell us all, flashers don't just stop flashing."

"Why would Mr. Guster know that, Mr. Spencer?"

"Yeah, Shawn," Gus said agitated, "why would I know that?"

"I don't know, dude. Why did you know that other disturbing stuff you know?"

"Mr. Spencer—" Karen began.

"Chief," Shawn interrupted. "A flasher has been killed. And the spirits are telling me that this dead flasher has something to do with Det. Stiles."

"Do you have any evidence of that?" Karen crossed her arms and leaned back in her desk chair.

"Other than the searing pain in my eyeballs? No."

"Chief, he doesn't even have a body," Carlton complained.

Shawn closed his eyes shut and raised his arms. His fingers waggled in the air, alternating as he mumbled numbers under his breath. "Five! No...Seven! No, no! Dirty...thirty...3569 San Pascual Street," Shawn rattled off, lowering his arms.

The three officers stared at him silently.

"The nearest IHOP is about two miles away," Shawn added helpfully.

* * *

><p>"I can't believe they beat us here," Shawn mumbled.<p>

"They have sirens, Shawn," Gus replied. "And I'm pretty sure Juliet didn't make Lassiter pull over for crepes."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Well, if she had, I'm sure he wouldn't have made the excursion twice as long by demanding the waitress heat up the chocolate syrup."

Gus shrugged. "I don't like cold syrups."

Shawn ignored him and hurried to where Juliet was waving them over on Leonard's front step. "Well?" he asked when they joined her.

"One dead," she answered gravely. "Name, Leonard James, a registered sex offender."

"What happened to him?" Gus asked.

"We don't know yet. Lassiter's examining the body."

The head detective strode out the house as if summoned. He frowned when he saw Shawn and Gus, but didn't say anything to the pair. Instead, he turned to face Juliet.

"Two shots," Carlton said brusquely. "Straight in the head." He crouched under the crime scene tape that had already been placed in front of the door. CSI and uniformed officers buzzed back and forth from the interior of the house to the police vans parked along the street.

"Could it have been Stiles?" Juliet asked.

"The accuracy of the shots would support that theory, but that's not enough to bring him in. Not at least until ballistics has time to go over the evidence."

"Man, are you serious?" Shawn asked frustrated. "I know Stiles is behind this. I can sense it."

"Well, I'm sorry, Spencer, but unless you can think of a way for us all to 'sense' it, that doesn't do us any good."

Shawn scoffed and began pacing in frustration. "You make this job more difficult than necessary, Lass, you really do," he mumbled.

He scanned the nearby area searching for anything that could link the former detective to the scene. He noticed two men sitting at the nearby bus stop. The older of the two, a heavyset dark-skinned man with a Jheri curl, frowned when Shawn made eye contact with him.

"Lassie!" Shawn shouted. He grabbed Carlton by the arm and pulled him down the porch stairs. "Come on, dude, I've found some guys who may have sensed it."

"Excuse me, gentlemen!" Shawn shouted as he pulled the other man across the street. "May we have a moment of your time?"

Carlton squirmed in Shawn's grasp. "Spencer, let go of my arm!"

Shawn ignored him. "Good afternoon, fellas," he greeted once they reached the bus stop. "My name is Shawn Spencer and this is my co-worker Slim Jim. Can we ask you a few questions?"

"That depends," Jheri Curl asked. "If it's anything about what happened over at Lenny's, we didn't see much of anything."

Shawn studied the two men's faces. They looked familiar. He'd seen them sitting out here before. They may not have seen the murder, but they probably knew a lot more than they realized.

Carlton wrenched his arm free from Shawn's grasp and pulled out his badge. "Carlton Lassiter, SBPD," he said curtly. "You have any idea what's happened at your friend's house?"

Jheri Curl shook his head. "Lenny's a weird cat. I wouldn't say he was a friend, but I wouldn't wish anything bad on him. At least, nothing like what it seems went down over there."

"You notice anything suspicious or different about him lately?"

"Nothing more suspicious than usual. Lenny was an asshole. He stayed to himself most of the time, except on Sunday mornings when he did his shopping. Hard to really say what he was doing. He _did_have a lot more company these last few days."

"Company?" Carlton asked. "Like who?"

"A dark-haired guy wearing a gun was here one day. Might have been a cop. He didn't have no uniform. He really pissed Lenny off."

"Did you get a name?"

Jheri Curl shook his head. "He didn't talk to any of us. He only spoke with Lenny for about 15 minutes before he told him to fuck off."

"Was there anyone else?"

Jheri Curl looked over at his friend, a skinny man wearing a purple Laker's cap over scraggly blond hair. "Wasn't he fussing with someone the other day?"

Purple Hat thought for a moment. "Yeah, two jackasses were wandering around the neighborhood last week."

"What did these jackasses look like?" Carlton asked.

"They drove a fruity little blue car," Purple Hat recalled. He looked over to where the police cars lined up the street. "It looked a lot like that," he said pointing to Gus' blue Prius.

Shawn cleared his throat loudly. "That doesn't mean too much. That's a very common car, actually."

"I don't think so," Jheri Curl commented.

"One of the guys looked a little like you, too." Purple Hat said, pointing toward Shawn. "Like he hadn't combed his hair in two days."

"Yeah," Jheri Curl said in recognition. "Yeah, that was you we saw talking to him. You and some angry, black yell-y guy."

"Oh no, Gus isn't angry. He's just neurotic."

Carlton glared at Shawn.

"Let's not talk about Gus right now," Shawn said quickly. "Let's go back to the dark-haired guy. You thought he was a cop?"

Purple Hat nodded slowly. "He walked around like he was a cop—you know, like he owned the place—and banged on Lenny's door like a cop would. And he had one of the cop frat stickers on his car. "

"Have you seen him here since?" Carlton asked, still giving Shawn a glare.

"Nope," Jheri Curl answered. "But if he was here, someone would have seen him. We don't get a lot of strangers coming through here."

"Thank you for your assistance," Carlton flipped closed his notepad and nodded to both men. He then grabbed Shawn by the arm and pulled him away from the bus stop. "What were you and Guster doing out here?" he asked once they were out of earshot of the two men.

"A vision may or may not have lead me to this neighborhood."

Carlton frowned.

"It did," Shawn said simply.

"Dammit, Spencer, is there a reason you refuse to listen to anything I tell you?"

"Look, Lassie, we go through this every case. Gus and I will make sure you get to do your big, bad cop routine, I promise. Gun, badge, kicking down of the door, the whole nine yards."

Carlton groaned in frustration before squeezing Shawn's arm and pulling him closer.

"Spencer!" he began, lowering his voice, "you do realize you two are now the last people to be seen with our victim before he was killed?"

Shawn scoffed. "You can't possibly think we killed Lenny."

"Do you also realize that apparently your friends over there weren't the only ones who saw you out here?"

"What are you—"

"Stiles, Spencer," Carlton said, fear flickering in his eyes. It fascinated Shawn; Carlton Lassiter didn't fear anything. "Stiles saw you speaking with James. That's why he had to come back. He had to shut him up."

* * *

><p>Shawn's coping mechanisms had not changed much since he was a child. Which explains why when Gus found him later that evening, he was sitting in the dark Psych office, drinking a Slurpee and watching <em>Bewitched<em>reruns on Netflix. Sitcoms always had a soothing effect on him.

"Your father called me," Gus said, flipping on the lights.

"Let me guess?" Shawn began, smacking his lips loudly as he released his Slurpee straw. "He's bought me a puppy?"

"Not even close. He said if you don't stop blocking his calls, he'll sell everything in your old room on eBay."

"Empty threat," Shawn countered.

Gus pulled out his phone and tapped open the web browser. "He's already posted your original copy of the _Terminator_soundtrack."

"What!" Shawn snatched the phone out of Gus' hands. "A buck? Is he serious?"

"It would appear so. I hope he'll at least rip-off the winner by jacking up the cost of shipping and handling." Gus snatched his phone back. "Why you'd run off earlier?" he asked switching the subject.

"Things got a bit too heavy for me."

"Murder's a pretty heavy thing, Shawn."

Shawn paused the black-and-white adventures of the suburban witch and met Gus' eyes. "Lassie thinks the reason Lenny got killed was because Stiles saw him with us."

"What!"

"I know, dude."

"Do you think he was watching Lenny?"

"I don't know."

"You don't think he's been watching _us_, do you?"

Shawn just took a long draw from his Slurpee.

Gus sat down at his desk, his face stricken. "Oh my god," he said softly. "We killed a guy."

"Dude, we didn't kill him."

"He died because of us, Shawn! I have some crazy flasher's blood on my hands."

"At most, you have an intimidating shove match or possible beating on your hands. Stiles took things way too far by killing the guy. That's all on him."

"Oh my god," Gus repeated. "Stiles is a murderer. A murderer that possibly thinks we know too much."

"I don't see how him being a murderer who thinks we know too much is that much worse than him being a pedophile that thinks we know too much."

Gus let out a small whimper.

"Okay, maybe it's a little worse."

Gus whimpered again.

Shawn sighed, then closed his laptop. "Things are getting too heavy again. I think I'll swing by my dad's and gather a few of my valuables."

"Don't leave me here alone!" Gus jumped up from his desk chair and followed Shawn to the door. "A flasher just got killed! What do l do if Stiles shows up?"

"Pour him a drink," Shawn offered. "I'll be back to help you entertain him in a few," he promised.

He shut the door behind him and listened as Gus locked the door and pulled the chain.

When Gus moved to lower the blinds on the office's large picture window, he knocked on the glass and, once he had Shawn's attention, pointed toward his watch.

"You got an hour, tops," he yelled through the window. "Keep me in here by myself too long, Shawn, and I'll personally see to it that Lassie gets your ass locked away somewhere."

"Love you, too, bro," Shawn replied with a gleeful wave. Gus frowned and flipped the blinds closed.

* * *

><p>Run in, run out. That was the plan. He wasn't a kid anymore. Shawn didn't owe his father any explanation.<p>

"Get out of my room, old man," he shouted as he slammed his father's front door behind him.

"Shawn!" Henry yelled back. He tossed his dish towel into a sink full of soapy water and stormed into the living room. "I've been trying to reach you all week, kid. We need to talk."

"Not now. I'm only here to pick up a few collectibles and then I'll split." Shawn bounded up the stairs and hurried to his old bedroom. Henry followed close behind.

"What have the police found on Stiles?"

Shawn grabbed an old backpack from his closet and began stuffing it with items from around his room. "On him?" Shawn deflected. "A lot of really tacky shirts."

"Don't change the subject. What have you all found out?"

"I'd love to tell you, Dad, but," Shawn paused his puttering to look at his father. "Actually, no. It's a lot more fun keeping it from you."

Henry sighed and sat down on the edge of Shawn's bed. "I can't believe this. Ian Stiles. I've known him since he was a rookie. I practically raised him."

"Does that make us brothers?" Shawn asked humorlessly.

Henry ignored him. "I didn't see any signs, Shawn. I spent 20 years locking up thieves, rapists and murderers, and I couldn't even see what was right next to me."

Shawn poked through a stack of magazines sitting on his old work desk. "Well, Dad, things like that happen to the best of us. Disasters happen right under our noses and we never know any different."

"I just can't see him doing it. Something must have happened to him. The Ian Stiles I knew was never _that_sick."

"Really?" Shawn asked casually. "What if I say I knew that he was like that all along?"

"How would you know?" Henry asked, his voice lowering.

Looking back, Shawn had no idea what prompted him to say that. Maybe he was sick of hiding or maybe he too was angry at his father's lack of knowledge regarding Stiles true self. Either way, once he opened his mouth, he couldn't shut up.

"Take a stab at it, Dad. I'm sure you can figure it out."

Henry stood and glared angrily at Shawn. "Don't go there, Shawn."

"Why? Mad you didn't pick up on that, either?"

"Shut up, kid. This isn't funny."

"No, it's not. It wasn't funny 15 years ago and it's not funny now."

Henry shook his head. "Stop talking, Shawn," he said, a dangerous growl in his voice.

"You wanted to know everything. Well, I'm telling you everything."

"I don't want to hear it."

"He gave me alcohol."

"Shut up."

"He told me I'd want the photos when I was older. That I'd want something to remember us by."

"I said, shut it!"

"He made me touch him first before he'd touch me."

"Quiet!" Henry barked. "Shut up, Shawn. Shut up or you'll push me into doing something I'll regret."

"I shouldn't have come here," Shawn mumbled. "I knew you wouldn't understand then, and you don't understand now." He brushed roughly past his father.

"We're not through here," Henry said as he followed Shawn out.

"You've made it pretty clear that we are." Shawn rushed down the stairs and to the front door. Henry reached out and held it shut before Shawn could get out.

"If you're telling me the truth, Shawn, if you got yourself in that situation and you never told me, I'll...I'll..." Henry's eyes flashed as he struggled to maintain his temper. Shawn pushed his arm off the front door.

"It's always nice talking to you, Dad. I'll tell Ian you said 'Hey.'"

He slammed the door shut before his father could answer.

* * *

><p>It was funny that Shawn would find himself back here of all places. The house looked the same as it always had, although, a bit more well-lit than in his nightmares. It was disgustingly ordinary with off-white siding and a neatly trimmed lawn. It appeared unoccupied, a casualty of the economic times, and the windows were dark and shaded.<p>

Shawn leaned against the tree in the front yard. He hadn't been surprised by his father's reaction to hearing of Stiles' abuse. Henry had been a protective father and a proud cop. If he thought his own son could easily fall victim to a man he'd trusted with his own life, he'd view it as a failure on his part.

But Shawn didn't want anger. He didn't want pity, either. Understanding would have been nice, or even sympathy. The closest he'd gotten to that was his confusing conversation with Lassiter a week ago. He sighed and rubbed his temples. Shawn didn't consider himself a big drinker, but he sure could use the numbing effect of a stiff drink.

He pushed himself off the tree and stretched in the cool night air. Gus had been alone for too long. Perhaps Shawn could talk him into joining him at a nice, crowded, well-lit bar. He turned and stopped dead in his tracks.

Really, given the day's events, he shouldn't have been too surprised to see _him_here.

"Shawny," the man said with a smile. "It's been too long."

Shawn smiled and hoped that his shaking wasn't too obvious.

"Not long enough, if you ask some folks. You're in quite a mess, Det. Stiles."

_TBC ..._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**To make up for the two month hiatus, I come offering a chapter that's twice as long as the others. I'm a liar who can't write/update on time. Forgive me?


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Ian Stiles may have been a murdering child predator, but he still had great hair. Shawn frowned. He didn't deserve it. Karma should have cursed him with the scalp of Jean-Luc Picard.

"Look at my beautiful boy. I can't get over how handsome you've grown up to be." The older detective reached out to ruffle Shawn's hair.

"What are you doing here?" Shawn asked as he ducked out of reach.

Ian forked an eyebrow. "I used to live here. I think the better question is, what are _you_ doing here?" When Shawn didn't answer, Ian just grinned. "I missed you, too. I was hoping you hadn't forgotten me."

"Trust me when I say I've been trying."

"Are you angry with me, Shawny?" Ian asked. "Is that how you treat an old friend?"

"You used me," Shawn replied.

"I helped you. Sometimes we don't always appreciate the help people give us."

"Nothing you've done has deserved my appreciation."

"You mean to tell me I didn't make you happy? I find that hard to believe."

"You're sick," Shawn said, as if comforting himself. "You use people. You used me. You knew exactly how to play me to get what you want and make me feel so pathetic, I'd never rat you out."

"Let's not lie to each other, Shawny. I made you feel everything but pathetic."

Bile rose in Shawn's throat.

Ian sighed. "I've been been in town for almost a month and you've spent the whole time avoiding me." He ran a hand through his hair. "Or at least, pretending to avoid me. You and Burton have been pretty busy following me around this past week."

"That a problem?"

Ian laughed. "Hardly. You two are harmless. Your cop friend on the other hand, he's starting to tick me off."

"Lassiter?" Shawn smiled humorlessly. "He has that effect on people."

Ian gave him a lavicious grin. "So I noticed. And if I didn't know any better, I'd say you seem to enjoy it."

Shawn scowled. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing," the former detective said with a shrug. "I'm just sad to see I've been replaced as your favorite cop."

"Favorite? You weren't even in the top 40. Fun fact: No. 27 is Barney Fife."

The older man laughed quietly. "I forgot how witty you could be."

"I'm a real sparkplug," Shawn deadpanned.

"But I haven't forgotten how much you meant to me." Ian moved closer and lowered his voice. "I know what you've been looking for. Our photos."

An icy chill shot through Shawn's heart. "You...you still have the photos?"

"Of course."

"You didn't give them to anyone else?"

"You think I'd share my beautiful boy?"

"Where are they?"

"Ah, ah, ah," Ian said with a wave of his finger. "I need something from you first. You see, you've created a real big mess for me. Not only have the police accused me of perversion, but now they're trying to pin a murder on me."

"Maybe you shouldn't be a murdering pervert."

Ian frowned. "Let's quit with the jokes. You want those photos, I want your detective friend off my ass. So let's make a deal."

"What do you want?"

"Come with me to my place. I'll give you the pictures, you do whatever it is you do to clear my name and we both part ways happy."

Shawn crossed his arms and pretended to think Ian's offer over. "Or," he began, "I could just let the cops catch you and smuggle the photos away when they confiscate all your sick souvenirs. You and I both know it wouldn't be that difficult."

"Well, by then it will be too late," Ian said darkly.

"What do you mean?"

"My offer's a one-time only thing, Shawny. And if you don't take it now, you may find it'll be too late to keep our special moments just between you and me."

Shawn swallowed. "You think I can just call them up, say you didn't do it and have everyone believe me? You think it'll be that easy?"

"It better be for your sake. What do you say? Go for a ride with me?"

The miniature Gus in Shawn's head screamed "Trap!" No way should Shawn leave the well-lit street in this well-lit neighborhood where the well-lit neighbors could look out their well-lit houses and make sure he wouldn't get well-lit up with bullets or whatever else Ian had planned for him. But Shawn paid less attention to the Gus in his head than he did the one in the real world.

"Only if you promise not to get fresh," Shawn answered. He smiled bitterly as mini-Gus threw a tantrum.

* * *

><p>Shawn was surprised to see the detective's home in much better order than when he and Gus had last broken in. The stacks of boxes had been unpacked and the crumpled newspaper cleared out. The dining room table been assembled and a large ceramic buck sat on the center of it.<p>

"Great job with the place," Shawn commented.

"I try. As you may remember, I entertain a lot. I like to have things around to capture people's interest. Kids love the animals."

Shawn stiffened. "How many kids do you 'entertain'?"

Ian grinned smugly. "Calm down, Shawny. It's nothing like that." He headed toward the kitchen and stirred something in a large slow cooker. "Hungry?" he asked as he pulled out two bowls from his cabinets. "I make a great beef stew."

"Are you serious? You think I want a snack?"

"I think I'm just trying to be a good host," Ian said with a sigh. He ladled a single serving of stew into a bowl. "I don't remember you ever being this uptight."

"I think it's safe to say you never really knew me."

"No, no. I think you've been hanging around that police station for too long. The place is full of drags, especially that lanky fellow you're always panting after."

Shawn quirked a lip, but refused to take the bait. "You're very fascinated with Det. Lassiter, aren't you?"

"I'm fascinated by your fascination."

"Excuse me?"

Ian sat at the dining room table with his food and motioned for Shawn to join him. "No worries, Shawn. I'm sure it's completely professional. He's good, I'll give him that. He certainly deserves the title of 'Head Detective.'"

Shawn almost smiled and sat down. "He's the best."

Ian grinned maliciously but didn't respond. "I guess that explains why you spend so much time with him. From what I hear, he and his partner are the only detectives you and Burton work with."

"Who'd you hear that from?"

"Does it matter? I suppose I can be comforted by the fact that the detective will never be as close to you as I am."

"Don't flatter yourself," Shawn said sharply. "I'd pick him over you any day. You're a sick monster that takes advantage of people. He's done more to help me—to help this city—than you have in your entire career."

"Protective, aren't we?"

Shawn stood up. "I don't have time to play these games with you. Where's what I came for?"

Ian patted Shawn's hip where his phone stuck out from his pocket. "You've got a phone call to make."

"I want to see the photos."

"Call the nice man first, and tell him I've been a good boy."

Shawn hesitated a moment before pulling out his phone. He dialed Carlton's number and was surprised when he picked up on the first ring. "Spencer! Where are you?"

"Lassie! I'm surprised that you're not surprised to hear from me."

"Guster called. He said you left your office an hour ago and he hasn't heard from you since. Where are you?"

"Don't worry, Lass-a-frass, things are good. I've got some news for you: Stiles didn't do it."

"Didn't do what, Spencer? He's been accused of quite a few things. Which crime are you talking about?"

"That's right. I saw it all. Turns out the actual murderer is a stylish rapper with dreams of starting his own fashion line. He must have been concentrating on potential stage names when he did the deed and that's why I kept getting 'Stiles'. The spirit world sometimes experiences a lot of static."

"What the hell are you babbling about?"

"That's right. I can't believe it, either. But hey, it's not like I haven't been wrong before."

"Since when do you admit—"

"Oh, no need, Lassie. I'll be sure to tell him myself. I'm sitting right here with him."

The line was silent and Shawn feared the call may have dropped. He panicked for a moment before hearing a slow exhalation from the other end.

"You're with Stiles and you can't talk," Carlton stated quietly. "Is that right?"

"You got it, Lassie." Shawn looked over at Ian who remained at the table eating his supper. His face was unreadable as he listened in.

"Listen to me, Spencer: Don't hang up. Keep him talking. I'm on my way."

"Well, I'm sure he'll appreciate that, Lassie. Tell Gus I'll see him tomorrow. Oh, and that the detective definitely shares his love of _Spy Kids."_

_"_Will he know what the hell you're talking about?"

"Good night, Lassie," Shawn replied before tapping the screen and slipping the phone in his back pocket. He looked over to where Ian was sitting and smiled.

"Guess he's not as quick as I thought," he said lightly.

"So, it would seem," Ian answered as he stirred his stew.

"Well, I've cleared your less-than-credible name. Now where's what I came for?"

Ian sighed before rising from the table. Shawn watched as he rinsed his dishes and put away the left-overs. Ian dried his hands on a paper towel, and as he approached Shawn, he gave him a leering smile before sticking his hand in his back pocket and pulling out his phone. Shawn leaped at the contact.

"What'd I'll tell you about trying to cop a feel?"

Ian held the phone to his ear for a few seconds before throwing it into the wall. The small electronic bounced off the plastered wall before falling to the ground, its glass face shattered and dark.

"What the hell?" Shawn yelped.

"I know you consider me a lot of things, Shawny, but I never thought you thought I was an idiot."

"What are you talking about?"

"The detective didn't buy your weak little story, did he? And now he knows something is up."

"No, I told him! I told him you didn't do it. He believed me. You heard it."

Ian nodded. "Yeah, I heard it. And I've learned enough about the two of you to know there's no way he'd take your word that easily."

"What can I say?" Shawn replied easily. "We've been getting along a lot better these days."

The older detective slammed his hand down on the solid coffee table. "I've noticed! Is he on his way now to rescue you?"

"What would I need rescuing from, Detective?" Shawn asked quietly. The other man continued to glare at him and for the first time since they'd reunited, Shawn felt that familiar wisp of fear. Ian Stiles had been a dangerous man: manipulative and constantly in need of Shawn's reassurances that he'd never betray him. Fifteen years later, he was still dangerous. And now he was pissed, angered by Shawn's pathetic showing and exhibiting strange jealously over his relationship with Carlton. It was time to get out.

"Give me my photos," Shawn ordered quietly. "I did what you asked. Now give me what I want."

Ian laughed, before taking time to collect himself. "Oh, Shawny," he said as he turned away and headed for his bookshelf. "I can't believe you're still _this _easy." He pulled a handgun from the top shelf and aimed it toward Shawn.

"Where are my photos?" Shawn asked again.

Ian scoffed. "I've got a gun pointed at you and all you're concerned with is those damn pictures?"

Shawn shallowed; his throat and mouth were sticky and dry. "You going to kill me? I thought I was your 'beautiful boy.'"

"You were," Ian frowned. "My beautiful boy. And now you're just another tool for the department. If you wanted the pictures, you could have just asked. But you lied to me. Followed me around like some rat and pinned that murder on me."

"You _did_ murder that man," Shawn said calmly.

"I was cleaning up. Cleaning up after the mess you created."

"Put the gun down, please. Give me the pictures and I'll tell Det. Lassiter and the chief that you had nothing to do with that. I'll tell them until they believe me. I promise."

"Stop being so stupid, Shawny. There are no pictures!"

Shawn nearly choked. "What?"

The older detective smiled. "My favorite photos of my favorite boy? I shared those as soon as I got them. All my friends adore you, Shawny."

_All my friends adore you. _Shawn felt his legs go limp and he slumped to the floor. "You didn't?"

"Yes, I did. But I still have digital copies. Much less of a hassle to deal with when moving."

Shawn barely heard him through his own devastation. The photos. There were no photos. No real photos, at least. Nothing he could touch, hide or destroy. His secret shame had already been shared with countless leering predators and perverts. And then there was Leonard. The man was killed thanks to Shawn's search for a disgusting artifact from his childhood that was already out of his grasp.

"You've caused me a lot of problems, Shawny, and I thought _maybe_ you could fix things." Ian muttered. "Ever since I've come back, all you've done is hurt me. I can't let that continue. I won't let them continue to ruin you."

The pop was loud and deafening. And then Shawn's arm was on fire. A searing pain radiated from above his elbow and nearly knocked him out with its power. Warmth flowed down his arm and through the fingers he splayed across his upper arm.

And the last thing he remembered before giving in to the blackness was the sound of wood splintering and someone calling his name.

_"Spencer!"_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **FYI: Lemon Martinis are awesome. *is tipsy*

It's late but I wanted to share this ASAP since I constantly feel guilty when this story isn't updated quickly. I wish I knew how other people are able to post chaptered stories so fast. They must write them all the way out in advance, because I swear I work on this a little bit each day and I still take forever. I'm amazed at how fast six weeks will go by. =/

Anyways, we're getting close to the end. Stiles' character isn't as fleshed out as I'd like him, but I hope everyone gets his motivation. Basically, he's old and he's desperate. (And he may be a little jealous.) What's worse, the one person he thought could help him get out of this mess, won't do it. I feel like I could write more about Stiles and Shawn, but no ones here for that. On to the Shassie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

When Shawn came to, the only thing he could recognize was pain. Intense pain that shot from his right arm and zapped all the way down to his toes. He was being carried — none to gently — by EMTs shouting about cleared airways, hemorrhaging and weak pulses. An oxygen tube had been plugged into his nose and his body had been strapped to a stabilizing backboard. There was so much movement and it was too much for his delicate state. He could feel his stomach flip as the world spun and rotated above him.

He was grateful when he was finally loaded into the back of an ambulance. In the stillness of the vehicle's cab, he took several calming deep breaths. Eventually, one of the EMTs noticed he was awake.

"Sir, can you hear me?" the young technician asked in a bored manner. "Are you able to tell me your name?"

Shawn tried to mumble a reply only to find himself out of breath half-way through.

"Okay, Mr. Shaw," the EMT began. "You've been shot. We're taking you to the hospital. I need you to try and stay awake, okay?" The tech moved to check Shawn's lower body before waiting for a reply.

This guy was an idiot, Shawn decided. He didn't need anyone telling him he'd been shot; not when his arm felt three seconds away from falling off completely. He wiggled his fingers and tried to gauge just how bad the damage was before a commotion at the rear of the ambulance caught his attention.

"Sir, there's not enough room—" a woman warned.

"Don't 'sir' me," a familiar voice demanded. "I am head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department and he's a member of my team. I will be accompanying him."

The vehicle dipped as a body climbed into the cab of the vehicle, and a few seconds later, someone was clasping the hand on Shawn's good arm.

"Spencer, you have to stay with me."

Shawn smiled at how that sentence could be misconstrued and was surprised at how easily he was able to do so despite the pain.

"Dude, I'm going to be real pissed if I find out you didn't beat his ass." At least, that's what Shawn had tried to say. His breathing began to come in gasps as he found himself struggling to speak.

"Quiet," Carlton commanded with an accompanying squeeze of his hand. "You lost a lot of blood. Don't use up the last of your energy trying to be your usual smart-ass self."

Shawn grinned again. The darkness was calling him back, empowered by his continuing blood loss and the warmth of Carlton's hand. His head hurt now, too, thanks to the wailing siren reverberating throughout the ambulance, and he decided that this ride from hell would be much better spent while unconscious.

As his vision got fuzzy and his limbs heavier, Shawn meet Carlton's gaze. The older man gave him a sad smile and brushed the hair away from his eyes.

That piqued Shawn's curiosity, but he figured he'd ask about the pitying look he was receiving later when there were fewer people around. And fewer bullets in his body.

* * *

><p><em>"No," Shawn said. He wiggled his toes and stared down at the ugly shag carpeting of Ian Stiles' basement. "I don't want to do this anymore."<em>

_"You don't like me anymore, Shawny?" The detective's voice broke the 15-year-old's heart. He was being cruel._

_"I like you," Shawn rushed to say. He flushed deeply, nearly the shade of the wine they'd been drinking. "I like you, but I don't like taking the pictures. It's kind of weird. We're not going anywhere or doing anything special. Why do we have to keep taking them?"_

_The older man smiled easily and cupped Shawn's cheek. "You're so beautiful, Shawn. I just want to make sure I can keep that beauty with me forever."_

* * *

><p>The comforting beep of Shawn's heart monitor enticed him out of his heavy sleep. His arm felt ... well, not better. There was no more pain, but his entire limb felt numb and cumbersome. He picked it up with his good arm and watched as it dropped back to the bed. He repeated the action, studying the disconnect of his right arm and the rest of his body with a morbid fascination, until a hand smacked his away.<p>

"Dude, stop that. You've caused yourself enough damage." Gus' face was a mix of worry and exasperation as he checked the bandages and tubes on Shawn's arm.

"I've lost the use of my arm and you're scolding me? Thanks for the worry, BFF."

Gus rolled his eyes. "You're medicated, not paralyzed, Shawn. Your arm's broken; it'll be fine after a couple of weeks and some physical therapy. See? I've already spent two days worrying all about you."

"I was out for two days?"

"Actually, you were out for three days. I only worried about you for two days. I've spent this last day quietly seething in anger."

Shawn considered that and decided two days of worry for a non-fatal gunshot wound was more than fair. "Where's my ice cream?" he asked, looking around at the tables and carts placed near the head of his bed.

"Little kids getting their tonsils out get ice cream. Grown men who got shot don't get anything. Don't change the subject."

"What exactly was the subject?"

Gus crossed his arms angrily. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to Stiles' place? I would have gone with you."

"No, you wouldn't have," Shawn shot back.

"No, I wouldn't have," Gus conceded. "I would have dragged you to the police station and forced Lassie to lock you in a holding cell. At the very least, I would have followed you to the edge of his lawn."

"If if makes you feel better, you did try to talk me out of it. You threw tantrum, if I remember correctly. It was high-pitched and very shrill."

Gus gave Shawn a concerned look. "What are you talking about?"

Shawn rubbed his temple. "Nothing, dude. I forgot. That was Mini-You."

"Huh?"

Shawn waved him away before sighing loudly. "Glad to see my father didn't waste his time around here waiting for me to wake up."

"Oh, he's here. He went to go buy some tapioca from the cafeteria."

"Think I can ignore him by pretending to still be in a coma?"

"Too late," a voice answered. Henry approached the hospital bed and handed a white paper bag to Gus. Gus smiled excitedly and pulled a single Styrofoam cup out of the bag.

"Dude, you made my dad buy you tapioca pudding?" Shawn asked incredulously.

"He offered, Shawn."

"The man's son is lying in a coma and you shake him down for geriatric snacks?"

"I was hungry!"

"You continue to disgust and disappoint me," Shawn said with a frown.

Henry shook his head before snatching Gus' tapioca away. "Alright, you two, enough. Shawn, I offered to buy Gus the pudding to help him calm down. Now Gus, go eat this outside so I can talk to my bone-headed son in privacy."

Gus quickly stuck his tongue out at Shawn before taking back his snack and strolling out the room.

"He was always a bad influence," Shawn said as they watched Gus' disappear down the hallway.

"Shawn, enough."

The younger man heaved another sigh and closed his eyes as he awaited his father's lecture.

"That was a dumb-ass move, kid," Henry said softly. He sounded exhausted.

"Sorry to worry you, pop." Shawn began twisting himself in the bed in an attempt to get more comfortable before being gently pushed down by Henry.

"Stay still. You'll reopen your wound if you keep thrashing around like that."

That was an order he didn't mind following. He collapsed back into his pillows, surprised at how fast the little bit of movement drained his energy.

His father sighed. "You've been shot more times in the last five years than I have in my entire police career."

Shawn shrugged. "Don't worry, Dad. There's still time for you to catch-up."

"This isn't funny. He could have killed you."

"But he didn't!" Shawn said brightly. "Where is he anyway?"

Henry pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. "Lassiter had to shoot him in order to disarm him. He's in a room down the hall in police custody."

"Well, I suppose that's good to hear," Shawn said after a moment. "You got any pudding for me in that bag?"

"Shawn," his father began seriously. "We need to talk about Stiles."

"No, we don't."

"You can't just ignore what happened."

"That's what's been working for me for the past twenty years."

Henry looked like he had been punched. "Why didn't you tell me anything before now? How am I supposed to help you if I don't know you're in trouble."

Shawn scoffed. "Of course," he replied with a humorless laugh. "You would think this is all my fault."

"I didn't say that!" Henry leaned back in the chair and ran a hand through his thinning hair in frustration. "I just ... I just don't understand why you would put yourself through that."

Shawn decided to ignore the question. He turned to look out his room's grungy window and watched as traffic flowed through the nearby streets. He heard the chair creak as his father stood up again.

"Did Gus know?" Henry asked quietly.

Shawn didn't look away from the window. "No."

"Do you plan on telling him?"

Shawn didn't answer.

"He's your friend. He'll understand."

"Since Gus doesn't possess any sort of time-traveling ability that I know of and in no way can prevent what happened to me from happening again, I see no reason to tell him. You know how he is. He'll just get all sad and start throwing around words like 'post-traumatic stress' and 'compensating.'" He looked back at his father and shook his head knowingly. "Trust me, a happy Gus is ... a happy Gus," he finished lamely.

His father gave him a concerned look. Shawn just waved him away.

"Dad, I was nearly killed. My knack for cool sayings isn't back 100 percent yet. Just give me another day and I'll be dropping dimes like it's hot."

"You do realize that 'dropping dimes' means to snitch, right?"

Shawn cocked his head. "I've — "

"Heard it both ways," his father finished for him. Henry smiled despite himself and uncrossed his arms. He leaned forward to place a quick kiss on top of Shawn's head and pulled his covers further over his body.

"Get some more rest, kiddo. I'll buy you a pudding when you wake up."

"Deal," Shawn said with a grin. "Make it chocolate. I'll never understand Gus' love of bug-eye textured foods."

Henry just shook his head in wry amusement.

* * *

><p><em>There were gnomes. Gnomes everywhere. Blood-spattered gnomes clasping tiny American flags standing in a vibrant green lawn that stretched on for miles. Their stoney eyes followed Shawn as he walked past each squat figure.<em>

_If Shawn didn't have an irrational fear of stone garden gnomes before, he surely did now._

_Suddenly, a woman's shocked scream broke the eerie serenity. Shawn ran toward the sound and came upon a patriotic-themed outdoor barbecue. Flags and star-spangled banners decorated wooden park tables and flew high in the clear sky._

_Shawn searched everywhere — underneath benches, behind trees and between tables of hot dogs, hamburgers and potato salad — but he couldn't find the screaming woman._

_Jheri Curl and Laker's Cap were there, though, eating hotdogs at a picnic table with Gus._

_"Dude?" Shawn shouted out to his friend._

_"Dude, yourself," a familiar voice sneered._

_Shawn whirled around. Standing before him was a bloody and naked Leonard James. In his hand was a pistol._

_"Lenny, buddy," Shawn began as he backed away from the older man._

_Leonard said nothing. He simply raised the gun and fired._

* * *

><p>Shawn woke up from the nightmare with his heart racing and drenched in a cold sweat. His room would have been nearly pitch black if not for the glow of the hospital's exterior lights peaking through his blinds. As his eyes adjusted, he looked over and saw Carlton curled up in the nearby chair, arms crossed and head down in sleep. If the diluted soda sitting at the bottom of one of the hospital's clear plastic cups was anything to go by, the detective had been there for some time.<p>

Shawn reached out and pinched at Carlton's face. He woke with a start.

"What are you doing here, Lassie?" he asked. His voice was still raspy from sleep.

Carlton fumbled about nervously. His eyes darted around the room before finally meeting Shawn's. "You're awake," he said dumbly. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it and spoke again. "I'm here to take your statement."

"Stiles shot me. It hurt. That's pretty much my statement."

Carlton cleared his throat. "Spencer, there's more than that."

"Okay. You can add 'a lot' to my previous statement of 'it hurt.'"

"That's not what I'm talking about."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "I know, Lassie, I was in a suspect's house and I had no business being there. Look, it may be too early to play the 'I got shot' card, but dude, I totally got shot."

"Spencer," Carlton said again. He seemed to be battling something within himself. A moment later, he straightened and slipped on the professional, detective face Shawn knew so well. "Your phone never disconnected."

Shawn stared at him in confusion. His phone? In the haze of medication and drowsiness, Shawn could barely remember what happened to his phone. He still wasn't entirely sure what had happened to him. The last he remembered of his phone was the not-fake-but-purposely-misleading call with Carlton, Ian Stiles getting angry, Ian throwing his phone against the wall, pulling out a gun, and ...

Shawn's heart nearly stopped.

... And telling him the truth about his photos.

While Shawn's phone sat a few feet away, screen busted but with a clear and connected phone line.

Stricken, Shawn turned to face Carlton to verify his growing fear.

Even with his face in shadow, Shawn could tell Carlton was unable to meet his eyes. "I was able to hear everything, Spencer. His murder confession, the rest ... Everything."

Shawn exhaled deeply, feeling as if he'd just been slapped across the face.

"It wasn't your fault," Carlton said firmly after a moment. "I know you probably don't want me parroting a bunch of touchy-feely cliches at you, but I need you to know that. None of this is your fault. I understand why you were trying so hard to get on this case."

"Lassie — "

"This won't change anything, Spencer. I haven't told anyone what I heard, not even your father. I wanted ... I needed to speak with you first."

"Lassiter," Shawn tried again.

"I'll start tracking down the photographs and files right away." Shawn winced at Carlton's casual mention of the pictures. "I'll make sure we catch every one of Stiles' sick little friends, I promise you that. I'll testify against him myself. I'll — "

"Carlton," Shawn interrupted softly. The detective jumped at the use of his first name.

"Yes?"

"Do me a solid and promise me you'll forget anything you heard that didn't have to do with the murder of the grouchy flasher."

"Spencer, you know I can't just ignore — "

"You can," Shawn insisted. "Even if something did happen, too much time has passed. The statute of limitations means he can't be prosecuted, right?"

"Simply possessing the photos is a crime. If he's been holding on to evidence since — "

"No," Shawn said firmly. "You have no proof of that. Forget it and just focus on the two non-limited crimes that you overheard. "

Carlton shot up from his seat and loomed over the bed. "Your story, your corroboration, could help strengthen the other boys' cases. Why wouldn't you want to help them?"

Shawn refused to be swayed. "I'm sorry, Lassie. I can't worry about them. I need for this to go away. Stiles can be charged for the crimes he's committed against me and Leonard James. That's enough for me."

"He hurt you, Spencer," the detective whispered harshly, his temper flaring. "He took advantage of you and you expect me to just ignore that?"

Shawn sunk down in his bed, weary and exhausted. "I'm asking you to, Lassie. Please, as my friend, just let it drop. He shot me and he told me he killed James. You try and push for anything else and I'll deny it. Got it?"

"Spencer, he has to pay for what he's done to you!"

"Got it, Lassie?" Shawn repeated, staring Carlton in the eye.

The dark-haired man gaped in confusion before getting a hold of himself. "Yeah, I got it," he replied curtly. "If that's really what you want," he finished slowly, as if he was waiting for Shawn to change his mind.

"That's what I want."

The detective nodded before turning on his heel and storming out of the dark hospital room.

Shawn took his pillow and with his good arm, held it over his face. He screamed into it until a nurse ran in, face stern and sedative in hand.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Shassie in a hospital. I'm feeling nostalgic. *thinks back fondly to "Love is Blind (But LASIK is Cheap)."*

Chapter nine is where the hurt/comfort will come in, so I hope Carlton's less-than-sensitive reaction to Shawn's refusal to go after Stiles hasn't turned anyone off. I just figure Lassiter's the type of guy who, when he decides he wants to help someone, he does so through action and in the only way he knows how. (Does that make sense? Think Lassie trying to help Karen through labor. He wasn't the most emotionally comforting, but he knew he had to be there and he tried.) In this situation, that meant putting on his detective's hat and making sure Stiles gets what's coming to him.

Final note, I wrote a piece of full-on smut this month that's left me somewhat brave/empowered enough to attempt something for this piece. In the epilogue of course. Nothing sexual can happen this early in the relationship. =/

This author's note is dragging on. I just like babbling to you all. As always, thanks for reading and thanks for sticking with this story!


	9. Bonus Chapter

**[Bonus Chapter]**

Carlton hovered outside the dark hospital room, ignoring the young officer standing guard near the door, and strained to see the figure lying on the bed. He hesitated, afraid of what might happen if he entered the room. He knew that Ian was no threat, to himself or anyone else.

However, at the moment, Carlton wasn't so sure about what danger _he_ might present.

"Are you going to come in?" Ian's sleep-husky voice called out. "I'm going to be living under direct watch for at least the next few months. I'd like to enjoy the little privacy I have left."

Carlton stormed in the room, flipping the light on as he did so. "'Months? You think you'll only get months?"

The other man ignored his outburst. "You must be Detective Lassiter. Your reputation precedes you." Ian smirked before wincing in pain. "If you're here to threaten me, it's a little late for that. The shot to the leg you gave me was plenty."

Carlton could see that for himself. Ian's right leg lay on top of his bed sheets with his wound wrapped loosely in gauze. The leg looked deathly pale except for the bright red circle of inflamed skin radiating around his calf. That wasn't his only visible injury. His face was scratched from where he landed on it after taking Carlton's bullet, and his upper arms had been badly bruised from being subdued and handcuffed. Carlton couldn't help the grin of satisfaction he felt curl onto his face.

"You shouldn't have been waving that gun around," he snarked back. "There no way in hell you honestly believe you'll get off with anything less than 25 years for what you did."

"And what exactly did I do, Detective?"

"Don't play dumb," Carlton fumed.

"Then, don't speak to me like I am. I'm not stupid enough to discuss my charges with the detective leading the case." The former cop moved to sit up in his bed, grimacing as his injured leg throbbed in pain. "Especially when it's the same detective that fired his weapon at me."

"It took a lot for me not to kill you," Carlton said curtly. "In fact, the only thing that saved you was your service as an officer."

Ian chuckled before wincing. "Good looking out, Detective."

"I wasn't looking out for you, _Ian_," Carlton practically growled. "I was looking out for Spencer. Killing you would have only made this harder for him. He still has answers he needs from you."

"Spencer'? I thought you two were on a first-name basis."

Carlton could feel his face burn. "That's none of your business."

The older man studied him for a moment before grinning maliciously. "Does he know, Detective?" he asked, his voice mocking.

"Does who know what?"

"Shawny. Does he know you're in here playing the big, macho cop for his sake?"

"Stop trying to distract me."

"He means something to you."

"Of course. He's my co-worker."

"I think he's more than that. You forget, Detective, that I can read people just as easily as you can. No one else came in here to huff and puff at me. Not even Henry."

"And?"

"_And_, you were the one Shawny called when he was in trouble. Not his partner or his father. And you don't seem simply disgusted with me like everyone else is. You're angry."

"Don't call him 'Shawny,'" Carlton growled.

"See what I mean? Your hatred is much more personal. You almost act as if I took something of yours."

Carlton didn't reply. He wouldn't give this man more of his words to twist around.

"My Shawny's a good kid, detective, but he's very confused right now. I certainly wouldn't want someone like you sniffing after him."

Cartlton chuckled bitterly. "You are so deluded," he muttered. "What makes you think you have any say on who he has in his life?"

"I'll always have some influence over him," Ian said smugly. "I've known him since he was a kid. I've helped him to become the man he is today."

"You're a monster. Once he forgets you, he'll be much happier."

"Are you planning on helping him to forget me? How noble, Detective."

It took all of Carlton's self-control not to plow his fist into Ian's leering face. "We — his family and his friends — will all help him," he began calmly. "But I'm going to go one step further. I'm going to make sure you pay. I'm going to make sure every inmate at whatever hellhole they throw you in knows that you were a cop and that you touched little kids."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do," Carlton said, his voice dangerously low. "I'm going to make sure they know just how sick you are. And you and I both know how much a reputation matters in prison. I'm going to make sure yours is shredded before you even step foot in the court room."

If Ian was shaken by Carlton's threat, he didn't show it. Instead, he leaned back against his pillows, a smug smile playing about his face.

"I was staring down murderers and psychopaths while you were still toddling around your mama's house," he said softly. "So, Det. Lassiter, please don't be too upset when I tell you your little show here means nothing to me."

It was Carlton's turn to grin. "If you think this is a show, then you don't know me as well as you think." He turned away, loudly kicking a visitor's chair out of his path as he made his way to the door. "Sleep tight, Ian. California's had some major budget cuts since you were last here. This might be your last night on a real mattress for the rest of your life."

Carlton flipped the light off and yanked the door closed behind him.

"Thanks for dropping by, Detective," Ian called out right before the door clicked shut. "Please tell Shawny I'll miss him."

**A/N: **And so it begins ... or rather ends. I'm posting the final three chapters of the story tonight. \o/ And then I'm doing some major journal housekeeping. LJ has made all my block quotes gray and italicized. This bonus chapter wasn't planned, but it felt necessary. The reason behind Carlton's anger needed to be explained and he needed a space to express it.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"See?" Shawn yelled through the glass door of his converted laundromat/apartment. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid."

Carlton frowned. He balanced the small baker's box he was carrying on one hand and tried the handle to Shawn's front door with the other. "Spencer, just let me in."

"Not recommended, Lassie. I wasn't expecting company this week and my place is in no condition to entertain."

"Open the door," Carlton ordered again.

"Dude, I'm serious. It's too hard to shower or change clothes with this arm. I think I smell like Charlie Sheen's hair."

"I don't feel like arguing with you, Spencer. I —" Carlton stopped talking when Shawn suddenly approached the door to peek at the package in his arms.

"What's in the box?" he asked, he face pressed against the door. He reminded Carlton of a child gazing in at a toy store.

The detective rolled his eyes at him and held the pale green box up for inspection. "Cupcakes. They were a gift from some baker."

Shawn swung open and reached out to grab the box. Carlton held it just out of his reach before sliding past him and through the doors. Glaring, Shawn snatched the box away and shuffled past him.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he mumbled, kicking a pile of clothes from his path. Carlton was momentarily pleased that Shawn didn't tell him to get lost, but the feeling gave way to distaste when he looked at the state of the other man's apartment.

"What did you do to this place, Spencer?" he asked, taking in the mess. Fast-food cartons and empty frozen daiquiri packages lay scattered across the floor, and piles of clothes sat in mounds on the furniture.

"I lived in it, Lassie. Living's just been real hard these past few weeks." Shawn sat down at his converted cashier counter/breakfast nook and flipped open the box. A note scrawled on a pale yellow napkin with the words 'Cups of Cake' printed in a green script was taped to the lid.

_Psych - It _was_ the kitchen manager with help from wife. I've let go of them both. I appreciate your help. In exchange, try my new cupcake flavor inspired by the experience. I call it 'Cinnamon Rage.' _

Shawn frowned. Inside the box were tiny spice cakes with bright-red icing and cinnamon candies on top. The tray had space for 12; there were four left.

"Where are the rest of my cakes?" Shawn asked.

Carlton shrugged. "I don't know. Guster said the baker brought them by your office earlier this week."

"He ate more than his share. Some partner."

"He only ate three. O'Hara and I also had some."

Shawn gave him an accusatory glare.

"He offered," Carlton replied simply.

"I did all the work," Shawn pouted, before popping one of the cupcakes into his mouth. "It's spicy!"

"I think that's the point."

"Dude, who wants a spicy cupcake? It makes as much sense as carrot cake. No, I take that back; carrot cake makes less sense. Who want's a vegetable in their dessert?"

"Spencer," Carlton interrupted. "I didn't come all the way out here to talk about cake."

"Wanna talk pie?"

"I want to talk about Stiles."

Shawn shook his head in annoyance. "'Talk about Stiles.' 'Talk about Stiles.' 'Talk about Stiles.' Did you and my father watch the same episode of _Dr. Phil_?"

"We're both officers and we're both concerned about what happened."

"Well, my arm's all bandaged up and the creep's going to court, so there's nothing to be worried about." Shawn rose from the counter, holding his box of cupcakes awkwardly with his good arm.

"I haven't seen you around the station in two weeks. Guster said you hadn't been by your office in three."

"Taking a much needed vacation."

"Three weeks is a bit much for a vacation, don't you think? Last time you got shot, you were back at the station and flirting with O'Hara in four days."

Shawn ignored him as he made his way over to his messy bed. "Thank you for the concern, Lassie. Make sure you lock the door on your way out."

Carlton hesitated a moment before following after Shawn. "You've gone through a severe trauma," he told him. "You may think you're able to deal with it, but it will affect you. And we're all worried about what will happen when it does."

Shawn halted suddenly before turning to glare at Carlton. "'We're?'" he repeated. "Did you tell Gus? If anyone told him anything I swear I'll —"

Carlton scoffed and crossed his arms. "Give me — and Guster — some credit. If he knew about what happened between you and Stiles, do you really think he'd send me to come check on you? He would have pulled you out of this sty weeks ago."

Shawn visibly relaxed at that logic.

"I didn't tell anyone anything, but everyone could tell that something about the case was bothering you," he continued. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Guster would have come with me, but with you AWOL, he's been unable to afford to take more time off. He thinks you're upset because it was your father's former partner."

"He's not too far off," Shawn said before turning away again. Carlton watched him as he fumbled his way awkwardly across the messy room. After almost 20 years in the field, his unsteady gait was suddenly recognizable.

"Are you drunk?" he asked.

Shawn grinned before taking a bite of another cupcake. A smidgen of red icing dotted his nose. "No," he answered. He stumbled abruptly over a pair of tennis shoes before righting himself. "Tipsy? Yes."

Now Carlton was worried. In the nearly seven years he'd known the private investigator, he'd never heard of him getting purposely intoxicated.

"Don't look so scandalized, Lassie," Shawn said, licking his lips. He popped another cupcake into his mouth and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Although, I am glad that I'm still able to get that kind of reaction out of you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not a victim."

"I didn't say you were."

"But you think I am. You're here. You think I need someone checking in on me."

"I think you need _something_. I just told you, Guster sent me. He was worried."

"Well you can go report back that I'm just fine."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

Carlton gestured at the trash and clothes scattered around the floor. "I don't think so."

Shawn snorted dismissively and ate his last cupcake. He shrugged as he chewed. "Well, what do we do now?"

The head detective shuffled awkwardly; he wasn't good at healing emotional wounds. He looked around again at the apartment. The place was a disaster and he had a feeling that Shawn was in a similar condition. He approached the younger man and ran a hand through his greasy hair. Shawn froze at his touch.

"When was the last time you showered?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes. You go take a shower and I'll clean up out here. Just be careful not to fall with that arm."

Shawn chuckled slightly. "You clean?"

"I live alone, Spencer. Who did you think picked up after me."

"Is this your grand plan on helping me get over 'my trauma'?"

Carlton met his eyes uncomfortably. "I just want to help you. Period."

The younger man laughed harder. "You think this will do it? A hot shower and a clean floor?" He flopped backward on the bed. "Carly Poppins here to make everything better." His laughter grew more hysterical until Carlton realized he was crying. He sat down on the bed next to the emotional man, careful not to impede his personal space.

"Spencer?" he asked awkwardly. "Are you okay?"

"Why are you here?" Shawn demanded. He sat up, eyes red and glaring. "What do you want from me? You want to hear everything he did to me? You want to hear how shitty I feel?"

"No, I just want to make sure you're okay."

"'Okay, okay, okay.' What does that even mean? You want me to run around and crack jokes and pretend like everything's alright just so you feel better?"

"No! I —"

Shawn didn't let him finish. He reached out and grabbed his suit jacket, pulling the taller man down next to him on his unmade bed.

"Spencer!" Carlton shouted, attempting to push Shawn away from him. "What are you doing?"

They wrestled awkwardly until Shawn had Carlton pinned underneath him.

"You want to help me?" he fumed. "That's what he said, too. He just wanted to help me. He just wanted to make me feel good. He didn't give a damn how I actually felt. It was all for him!"

It took a great deal of Carlton's patience not to knock the other man to the floor. "Who the hell do you think I am!?" he raged. "I'm not Stiles. I'm not here to take advantage of you."

"Then why are you here?" Shawn shouted.

"I already told you."

"No! You told me that Gus asked you to come. The Lassiter I know doesn't take orders. So, I'm asking, why are you here?"

"Because I want to be here!" he shouted back. "I wanted to make sure you weren't hurt. You're my friend."

Shawn stared down at him for a moment, breathing hard from both his emotions and his earlier exertion. After a few tense heartbeats, his anger melted out of him and he collapsed onto the other man. Carlton lay still, terrified of which direction Shawn's emotions would swing next.

"I'm sorry," he heard Shawn mumble.

"It's ... it's okay."

"No. It was wrong. You're right. You're not Stiles. I just ... I can't think straight anymore. I don't know who I can trust anymore."

Carlton felt hot moisture seeping into his cotton button-up as Shawn fisted the fabric of his suit jacket.

"I hate what he's done to me," Shawn fumed. He pulled on Carlton's jacket tighter. "He made hate myself. I hated that I allowed him to do that to me. I hated that I ... " Shawn exhaled raggedly, warming Carlton's skin.

"Yes?" he prompted quietly.

"I hated that I enjoyed it."

Carlton sighed. "He knew that, Shawn," he comforted. "He knew you'd blame yourself. That's what makes him a predator. He was an adult. It was his responsibility to protect you, not your responsibility to look out for him." The younger man didn't answer, but Carlton could feel the wet spot on his shirt growing bigger and could still hear him struggle to control his breathing.

"I going to tell you something, Spencer, but only if you promise to not throw it back in my face later."

When Shawn didn't reply, Carlton took that as permission to continue.

"I envy you."

Shawn scoffed.

"I do. Really. You are — you have everything I wish I did. You're a natural detective. You make my job look easy. Your father and your mother adore you. You have a best friend you've known your entire life. Everyone loves you."

Carlton pulled Shawn closer, remembering to be careful of his arm as he settled him more comfortably on his chest.

"I'm sorry," he continued softly. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I'm sorry no one was there to help you. But we're here now ... I'm here now and I'm going to do everything I can to make sure he never hurts you or anyone else ever again."

"He's already hurt me, Lass."

"Then I'll help you get better."

"I don't need you to be some kind of cliche hero."

"I know," Carlton admitted. "But I want to be."

He felt Shawn stiffen in his arms, before pushing himself up with his good arm to look down at the detective. Hazel eyes searched sky blue for answers to questions that neither one knew. With their faces already only inches apart, Carlton could feel his heart skip when the other man pressed closer.

"Shawn?" Carlton whispered softly. That seemed to break the momentary spell and Shawn quickly rolled off him with a shake of his head. He rose from the bed and ran a hand through his hair.

"Sorry, dude." Shawn gave a nervous laugh as he turned to hide his face. "I think I'm gonna go take that shower now. You can see yourself out, right?"

"But —"

"Thank you, Lassie, for checking on me. I'll be fine."

"You won't do anything ... stupid, will you?" Carlton asked, voicing a fear that had been hanging in the back of his mind since he'd noticed Shawn's continued absence at the station.

Shawn laughed humorlessly. "He only hurt me, dude. He didn't break me. I'll be back, I promise. I just need some time to myself."

Carlton figured that was as much comfort as he was going to get. "Okay," he said simply. "Call me — or your father or Gus or O'Hara — if you need anything. It's not a problem."

Shawn just nodded before going into his bathroom and slamming the door. When he came out an hour later, skin still pink from the hot water, his apartment had been straightened up: Dirty clothes had been placed in the hamper, trash and food cartons had been taken out and a note had been left on his fridge door.

_Remember, Shawn, you don't have to tell us what happened to tell us you need help. Carlton_

* * *

><p>It had been a week since Carlton had visited Shawn and they still hadn't heard anything from the private eye. The detective was concerned, but Shawn had promised he wouldn't do anything rash, and in all the years that Carlton had known him, Shawn had never broken a promise.<p>

So, he waited. He worked on cases — completely free of distractions, interference and psychic visions — and spent an increasing amount of time "de-stressing" at the gun range. He tried not to reflect on why.

"Is something bothering you, Carlton?" Juliet asked one late Friday afternoon.

"What makes you think something's bothering me?"

Juliet gave him a look. "I don't know, maybe the fact that you've gone out to the range three times today alone. Not to mention, you nearly body slammed a couple suspects in that gang murder case this morning."

Carlton shrugged and started packing up to go home. "Tough job."

Juliet smiled a bit sadly, as if she understood. That was one of the reasons why Carlton loved her; she got him better than any other woman in his life. "You can call him, you know," she told him gently.

"I already visited," was his automatic reply. When he realized what he said, he flushed and looked up to see Juliet grinning at him.

"Really?" Juliet replied. "You didn't invite me to go with?"

"It was a sort of on an impulse." Not entirely comfortable with the direction their conversation was headed, Carlton rose from his desk and shut down his computer.

"Are you blushing?"

"Of course not, O'Hara," he stated. He fumbled with his bag and jacket and hurried to rush out of the bullpen. The urge to shoot something had been building since lunch and he needed to take care of it. Now.

"There's nothing wrong with visiting a friend, Carlton," Juliet shouted out after him. "And there's nothing wrong with admitting that Shawn's your friend."

_Maybe not_, Carlton thought. But there was certainly something wrong with admitting that friend may be something more.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **You're almost there! This was originally much longer, but I wanted the next scene to get a chapter all it's own.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Carlton took aim, lined up his shot and squeezed the trigger. _Bam. Bam. Bam._ Three shots, three fictitious scumbags taken out. If only the real-world were as clean-cut.

Since that night nearly a month ago when Carlton had stalked out of Ian Stiles' hospital room, his anger had festered into a white-hot ball of rage. The confusing thing was, he wasn't even sure what he was more angry with: Shawn's stubbornness, Ian Stiles perversion or his own failings.

_You almost act as if I took something of yours._

The next two shots Carlton took nearly missed their mark, blinded as he was by his own fury. Carlton was no predator; and despite what Ian thought, he sure as hell wasn't going to burden Shawn with his own conflicted feelings, no matter how strong they grew to be.

The moment they'd shared back at his apartment a week ago still haunted him. The man had gone from accusing him of wanting to molest him to nearly kissing him. Shawn was still too hurt, too confused for Carlton to even begin to think of in that light.

He raised his arm and concentrated on the final target. He pictured Ian, 15 years younger with a lecherous smirk that was meant to charm teenage boys. He scowled and pulled the trigger. _Bam._

A perfect shot.

"Careful, Lassie," a voice said. "If you frown any harder, your face may get stuck that way."

Carlton whirled around to see Shawn watching him with a warm smile on his face. He set his gun down and hurried to remove his protective gear. He looked Shawn up and down, relief spreading across his face at the sight of him appearing like his old, cocky self.

He opened and closed his mouth, preparing to say something before changing his mind. He had a million things he wanted to tell the other man, from scolding him for slacking off to snarking at him for sneaking up on him.

"You're back," was all he was able to manage.

Shawn chuckled to himself and walked over to lean against the wall of the narrow shooting stall. "Yep. I'm back. Gus is, too, by the way. Make sure you look as excited when you see him as you did when you saw me."

The detective flushed slightly. "You've been given a case?"

"No, we've been asked to consult on a case. Turns out, neither the Chief, my father _nor_ Gus don't want me doing much work with this arm."

Carlton nodded. "I agree."

"Et tu, Lassie? Anyway, I put out some spiritual feelers and now your officers have a nice lead."

"Good. Why are you still here?"

"Couldn't leave without checking in on my favorite detective."

Carlton didn't know how to deal with Shawn's easy flirting, so he looked away. "Well, I'm happy — I mean, _we're_ happy to have you back."

"Glad to hear it," Shawn grinned. He couldn't help the small bubble of giddiness he felt at the other's flustered appearance. "Carlton," he began again softly. "I just ..." he looked away, cleared his throat and started again. "I want to thank you. For everything."

"You don't have to —"

"Dude," Shawn interrupted, raising his good hand, "just let me do this. I've never really wanted to deal with ... you know. And I can't promise that I will even after all this, but I'm grateful that you tried."

"We're a team; we look out for each other."

"I also want to apologize for what I said at my apartment. It was uncalled for."

Carlton flushed as he remembered Shawn's accusations of impropriety. "You were hurt. I understand."

Shawn smirked. "Guess I better enjoy this while it lasts, huh?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You've never given me this much slack before. I'm starting to think you may really care about me."

"I'm not a monster, Spencer. Given the circumstances, I'm not going to bust your ass, now."

Shawn forked an eyebrow. "Thank you for giving my ass such kind consideration."

Carlton sputtered. "I didn't — I mean, I don't —"

"Relax, Lass-a-frass, I was only kidding."

"Of course, I knew that."

"Of course," Shawn replied, voice teasing. He looked around the gun range and took in the small pile of used targets. "Looks like you've been down here a while. Hungry?"

The question surprised Carlton. "No, actually I'm fine. O'Hara disapproved of my protein shake lunch and made me have a cup of soup, too."

"Want to grab a drink then? Gus is feeling sympathetic and protective, which means I can get him to pay."

Carlton grimaced. Shawn and alcohol was not a combination he wanted to get familiar with. "No, thank you."

Shawn sighed loudly and ran his hand through his hair. "Geez, I'm losing my touch," he mumbled, mostly to himself. "I didn't think it would be this hard."

"What would be this hard?" the detective asked, frowning.

"You. I can't figure you out, dude."

"What's to figure out?"

Shawn looked him up and down quickly. "I may just have to go for it."

"What are you talking about, Spencer?"

Before Carlton could take in what was happening, Shawn pushed up against him and kissed him.

* * *

><p>For Shawn, there was something comforting about the strong, solid body he was kissing. Carlton smelled like gun powder and his skin was pleasantly cool to the touch. He grabbed on to the other man, wrapping his arms around his waist, and pressed himself as close as he could get.<p>

He didn't notice the other's lack of response immediately. He ran his tongue across the other man's lips, whimpering softly when he wasn't granted entrance. When he opened his eyes and saw Carlton staring back at him, Shawn could feel his stomach drop in fear. He pulled away quickly, eyes wide, and began backing away toward the stairs.

"My bad, Lassie," he began. "I thought —" He nearly stumbled over his own feet in his rush to run off. "I'm sorry." He turned to leave before Carlton grabbed his wrist.

"It's alright," Carlton whispered, pulling the other man into a hug. "Don't run; it's alright. You just caught me off guard."

Shawn gave a slightly hysterical sounding sigh of relief before relaxing into Carlton's embrace. "Don't scare me like that," he breathed.

"Wasn't my intention," Carlton said lowly, his voice rumbling in Shawn's ear. He rubbed small, soothing circles in the other's back. "But as long as we're on the subject, you have to promise the same thing. No more getting hurt. I can't take seeing you bleeding or crying or in pain ever again."

"I never took you for a sap, Lassie."

"I never thought you'd get shot. Twice."

"My goal is to get shot 10 times, thereby giving me more street cred than 50 Cent."

Carlton groaned. "Please don't."

Shawn chuckled before leaning forward to kiss the detective again. This time, Carlton welcomed him, holding his breath as Shawn ran his tongue across his lips and tasted his mouth. They took their time as they explored each other. Hands and fingers teased sensitive skin as Shawn tentatively moved his lips across Carlton's mouth and jaw. His breath tickled and he could feel the other man as he attempted to stifle a laugh.

"Are you sure?" Carlton asked him quietly when he was finished.

"About what?"

"About me. About this. I don't want you thinking I'm taking advantage of you.

Shawn sighed and pressed his forehead against the other man's. "Are you?" he asked.

"No!" Carlton tightened his grip around Shawn.

"Good. It's early, Lassie. Don't think so hard. Just let it be."

"I'm not like you, Spencer. I'm not good at just letting things 'be.' I —"

Shawn shushed him, leaning forward to nuzzle against Carlton's neck. They stood there, holding each other, for several minutes. Shawn reached down and laced his fingers in between Carlton's before bringing their conjoined hands to rest above his heart. His pulse was steady and comforting, and Carlton soon found himself breathing in time with it.

"This is nice, isn't?" Shawn asked.

"Yes."

"This is the best help you can give, Lass — Carlton. I don't want to be held back by what happened in the past and I don't want to worry about what's going to happen in the future. I just want to be able to enjoy being here, with you, now. Get it?"

"I can do that. I can do that for as long as you'll let me."

Shawn squeezed him tighter. "I'm sure you can."

Carlton tired hard not to smile giddily. To somehow ruin this moment with some stupid expression of romantic foolishness that would leave Shawn with the impression that he had completely lost his mind. Instead, he decided to do what Shawn said and focus on simply holding the man in his arms. Old habits die hard, though. Carlton, as practical as he was, couldn't stop himself from planning on just what he'd do to make sure Shawn enjoyed every moment with him.

He would take him on a trip first, he decided. Nothing too exotic that might scare Shawn away. A simple road trip out to the country or to the beach. They could go somewhere and eat and be lazy tourists. The one thing Carlton was looking forward to most, though, was taking pictures.

Lots of pictures of Shawn happy.

**A/N: **The POV is kind of wonky in these last two chapters, but me no curr! It's beens a long time coming, but the story is finally over. Many thanks to any and everyone who has been patient enough to stick it out with me. Special thanks to an_sceal for her constant encouragement! I never would have been able to finish without your wonderful comments.

I hope you all enjoyed the story (crosses fingers!). I plan to post a pdf of this story and "Love is Blind" in the very near future as part of my overall LJ housekeeping. Thanks again! \o/


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